


Se l'Aura Spira

by feralphoenix



Category: Blaze Union
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Child Abuse, M/M, Revisionist Fairy Tale, Role Reversal, Sexual Content
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-06-28
Updated: 2011-06-28
Packaged: 2017-10-20 19:28:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 22,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/216316
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This is the first page in the record of my evolution.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Se l'Aura Spira

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the fantasybigbang challenge at LiveJournal.

           The pub was a well-kept place—warm, handsomely lit, and built to be secure from drafts. The woman working the bar (she owned the place, he believed, as her husband ran the inn above it), a solid and portly woman with a no-nonsense air about her, had smiled upon him kindly when he placed enough coin on the table for a cider and given him a bowl of thick and hearty vegetable soup and a loaf of freshly-baked bread along with his order. She had waved off his thanks and bid him to go eat the food already with a dazzling smile, and he did as he was told, selecting an empty table close enough to the bar that he could hear what people were speaking about, but far enough away that he wouldn’t attract any attention.

            The soup and the bread were both good, and he ate slowly—it had been a while since he had been able to have a full meal and he didn’t want to make himself sick. He probably wouldn’t be able to finish the bread all in one sitting, but then he could wrap it up and take it with him. It would last him for a few days without becoming too stale to eat, and he was sure he could finish it before then.

            All the while, he kept the hood of his cloak up and the dark fabric close around his body. It covered his hair and cast a safe degree of hazy shadows over his face—enough to obscure his features without making it seem too obvious that he was concealing them. The occasional tremors of his body probably helped; to passersby, he would only seem to be a haggard traveler trying to protect himself from the early-autumn chill.

            He ate in silence, listening and keeping his gaze down.

            Unaware of their audience, the men and women at the bar laughed and ordered drinks and exchanged gossip. They spoke with pride of the local lord’s rising standing at the capital, and those fine troops of his that even managed to keep riffraff out of the slums. There was much sympathetic clucking over Samantha’s boy, who had run off to join said troops, with great indulgence for both Samantha and the boy. The topic of conversation led in its meandering fashion to _when,_ exactly, would the Emperor settle down and marry that nice soldier girl he seemed to have an eye on—for he had apparently turned down all the available women of age among the nobility already. Some of the men joked that they would be satisfied with any heir by now, even one born out of wedlock; the women rolled their eyes but didn’t protest the vulgarity of such a statement.

            He relaxed a bit when the townspeople exhausted all recent topics of interest without lingering over recent fugitives and began to rehash old happenings of note around the general area. Still, he kept listening. It might be useful; you never knew where you would next learn something of interest.

            But the talk spiraled onward, reaching further and further back through the years, and he was starting to tune them out and considering whether he should risk staying the night here or not when something one of them said caught his attention again.

            “…that fire. It was right bad for business, wound up destroying most of the farmer’s markets down in Nether. We had to import from Albelt for weeks while they fixed it all back up. Terrible, ‘twas.”

            “Could have been worse, hey? No one died.”

            “Not _many_ people died,” someone corrected that speaker, rather coldly. There was a hush.

            “I’d forgotten. Not many ‘round these parts care too much ‘bout all the bilge clinging to the corners of buildings in Nether.”

            “Well, three people dead is still three people dead, bilge or blue-bloods. No one misses the old ‘un at the end of the lane, but that’s acos he married the bottle when his woman left him, and he was far the worse off for it. Shame about those kids, though.”

            Another pause. Despite himself, he propped his elbows on the table and his face in his hands and glanced over at the speakers—not that he could glean much from the view; their backs were to him.

            “The boy, though—they never found ‘is body, did they? He coulda just run for it.”

            “In _that_ hell? More like he was burned up so bad there weren’t naught left to find.”

            “’Sides, the old folk say his ghost still haunts the old tower to the north. You can’t haunt nothin’ if you ain’t dead first, hey?”

            “Why ‘aunt the tower instead of where ‘e died?”

            “Dunno. The tower’s much more ghostly though. And it’s definitely haunted, you can’t get anyone to stay there for love or money. Place is downright creepy, it is.”

            And after that, the topic of conversation drifted away to other things. He returned his attention to his food, but made a mental note of the tower; if worse came to worst and he had to run for some reason, he could hide there if its reputation was so fearsome. He didn’t discount the people’s talk of ghosts, but it didn’t worry him; he had nothing to fear from the spirits of the dead.

 

-           -           -

 

            _There was no running away from the memories. Not even in dreams._

_He was four years old again, four and small for his age, wearing uncomfortable and heavily-patched clothes he’d scavenged that were too big for him. His hair was a few days away from being a complete rat’s nest no comb could get through, and his skin was mottled in blue, purple, and green._

_The old man wasn’t around, and he was outside that morning, sitting curled into a ball against the outer wall of the rickety shack of a house after a long night of being made to sleep outside. He was cold and tired and hungry and did not want to see anyone, talk to anyone, or be around people at all._

_But she showed up anyway._

_She looked nearly as careworn as he did, but she was as cheerful as ever and her only cuts and bruises were on her hands and knees, signs that she’d been playing around roughly as usual._

_“Let’s play!” she called to him, and when he didn’t answer, she reached down and grabbed his hand, apparently not wanting to take no for an answer today._

_Her fingers brushed his bruises, and he flinched._

_She let go of his hand, but gripped his shirtsleeve instead, digging her heels into the ground as she pulled (for he was putting all of his weight into staying seated) and puffing out her cheeks sulkily._

_When he wouldn’t budge despite all of her pulling and the fact that she was bigger than him, she pouted at him and then ran off._

_He thought he’d seen the last of her for the day, but she was back five minutes later with something like a bun in her hand, and she held it out to him stubbornly._

_Suspicion and hunger fought a brief and intense battle inside him; hunger won. Hesitantly, he took the bun from her, then bit into it, not taking his eyes off hers. It was filled with a kind of sweet jelly; he didn’t recognize the flavor. It was good, though, and he finished it off quickly, a little worried that someone might try to take the rest away from him._

_“There’s lots more,” she said, “c’mon!” And he resisted far less when she grabbed his sleeve this time, so that she was actually able to pull him to his feet and along with her now._

_She had been telling the truth, he found; there was a wide table of cheap pastries laid out and many children in varying states of shabbiness (along with a few so well-dressed that they had to come from the nobles’ district) were also there, eating what they liked and already playing games. There was a woman with a rosary speaking to a few other adults. This might be organized by the church._

_Most of what he cared about was that there was food, and he wouldn’t go hungry today even if the old man didn’t let him back in the house, even if he found nothing thrown out that was in good enough condition to scavenge. He ate until he started feeling like he couldn’t move anymore, found a shady spot to sit down, and watched the other children at play._

_His rest went mostly unmolested for the next ten or fifteen minutes, but after that, she had returned with some other girls and a few of the boys, positively glowing. The little dapples of light that fell upon her messy golden hair made her look like she was wearing a crown of delicate yellow leaves._

_“C’mon, let’s play now!”_

_There was no way that he could really resist her now, and so he was dragged along with the rest of the group on what she said was the first expedition of their team of phantom thieves, who fought for justice against the evil rich people (some of the noblemen’s children looked put out until she said that there were a couple of rich people that were probably not so bad). She was the captain of the band, and she would be leading them on their first expedition into Nievel._

_One hour, a pair of scraped knees, an accidental dunking into the river, and an oath of vengeance against the noble district’s high gates later, Siskier had become his very first friend._

 

-           -           -

 

            He ducked behind the cover of a tree, tried to still his breathing, and listened.

            —There, in the brush—he could still hear the far-off tramping of soldiers.

            Clutching his side, he ran over his options. At this range, as long as he could pinpoint the soldiers’ locations, then he would be able to attack them magically. The problem with that was that all the spells that would stretch the distance and be able to hit those soldiers were extremely flashy, and it would give away the fact that he was nearby. Thus far he’d done a good enough job of baffling the trail that they only knew the general direction he’d run in, but depending on how close the ranks of soldiers were to each other, giving up his vicinity would be dangerous. The wound on his side ached, and the blood kept escaping through the gaps in his fingers, the hot stain spreading through his clothes and trickling down his side. He had to decide before he started leaving a blood trail.

            The problem was that these soldiers knew that they were chasing down a skilled mage. Their commander had good battle sense, and he would have told them what to expect. No, if he tried to fight his way out of this, he was dead unless he had a huge territory advantage—somewhere the soldiers couldn’t reach him.

            This was a foxhunt. And he had to find someplace to hole up safely or he would be caught for certain.

            He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, listening, checking his position on the map in his head. The haunted tower that the people in the pub had talked about couldn’t be far now—he just had to keep heading straight and he would break into the clearing. Ever since he’d been spotted and identified in town, he’d been heading here—but he’d had to zigzag and double back on himself in places to keep it from being obvious that this was his destination. He was counting on superstition and fear of spirits to keep the soldiers from chasing him inside, but that might not work—these men might not have the same terror of the dead as the townspeople. They seemed strong-minded, so he couldn’t underestimate them.

            Drawing in a deep breath, he forced himself into a standing position, hoping desperately that blood loss wouldn’t keep his legs from holding him. And trying to keep from making noise, he ran.

            Every step hurt. His body wasn’t too far from giving out on him, but when the strength threatened to go out of his limbs, he channeled magical energy into them impatiently. It ached slightly, as though embers were steadily hitting his muscles, but power returned to them, and he lengthened his stride. His breath was coming in sharp gasps, but he could see the clearing through the trees, and he drew himself to a halt at their edge—

           It was a tall, thick tower, perhaps three or four stories tall, although there were no windows except on the very top floor. It looked rather like a rook made of large stone bricks, one that had been weathered and perhaps sat upon, as the crenels at the top looked slightly crushed on the eastern side.

            Which was all well and good, except that it seemed to have no entrance. There was no door anywhere that he could see, and he skirted the circumference of the clearing in an attempt to make sure there wasn’t something _somewhere_ that would allow him passage.

            But there wasn’t. He bit his lip and clamped his hand more tightly against the wound in his right side. By extending his senses, he could just barely make out the traces of human habitation inside the tower; there had to be some way in and out. He might have the power to carry himself to the top of the battlements and hide there, but he didn’t know if he could get down again in his condition. No, he had to get inside by more conventional means.

            After a few minutes of frustrated pacing, a pale light appeared around the curve of the tower; he ran for a better vantage point, and arrived just in time to see the faint outline of a door appearing. It opened, swinging outwards, and a woman dressed all in white walked out, heading straight into the forest. She seemed to be a bit taller than him, and even her hair was white; it was too dark to tell whether it was natural or from old age, and her features remained indistinct. He felt as though he’d caught a whiff of holy oils in her wake; she might have been some kind of priestess.

            When the door swung closed, there was another flash of pale light, and its outline vanished.

            The woman had been gone for a while, and he thought he caught the sound of tramping footsteps in the distance, so he dashed across the open ground, coming to a stop pressed against where the door had been. The stone didn’t feel any different from the walls surrounding it, except for the faintest haze of magic.

            Swallowing hard, he stepped back and laid his hand to the door, closing his eyes and feeling blindly for those traces. In his senses, the places where the magic had touched left glistening marks like a moonlit slug’s trail, and he blindly moved his fingers backwards over the patterns of runes, fashioning his magic to fit into the keyholes completely by feel, too nervous to fail. After what felt like forever but couldn’t have been more than a minute, the light reappeared, searing against the backs of his eyelids, and the door opened slightly. He wrenched it open with his free hand; there was an elegant metal handle on the inside, which he used to pull it shut after him. It sealed again; he was safe.

            There were lanterns on the inside of the tower, bathing the circular room in warm and gentle light; waiting for his eyes to adjust first, he glanced around as his breath started to huff slightly.

            There was something like a stove and a pantry, and a staircase down into what seemed to be a storage cellar—he thought he caught the outline of a simple well there. But the area was dominated by a large staircase that spiraled up towards what had to be the next floor.

            Somewhere here, there had to be a place where he could comfortably sit down and rest.

            But stubbornly, almost as if laughing at him, the stairs just refused to end. It was getting difficult to move his legs; after the fight and the flight and forcing his way through the door, his magic was starting to run dry, and the sparking bursts of energy in his muscles were dying down. His side was getting slippery, and the faint dripping sound said that he was starting to trail blood now. His clothes were probably black with it, he realized, smiling ruefully. It twisted on his lips like a grimace.

           And still the stairs would not end. He had to have climbed three floors’ worth by now; if this was another enchantment, then he didn’t have enough power left to sense it, let alone break it, and he would bleed out trying to reach the top—

            But at last his feet reached a landing, and the moonlight and lamps illuminated a not-quite-circular bedroom.

            It was quaintly but comfortably furnished, with a bed large enough for two, a carved wooden dresser and closet, a bookshelf and desk and several other odds and ends scattered here and there. It felt warm and lived in, and there was no dust anywhere.

            On top of which, there was someone curled up in the corner.

            _I thought there was supposed to be a ghost here?_ he thought dimly, slightly confused. That person was living and breathing, not a spirit at all.

            He couldn’t tell very much about the owner of the room simply because they were in the corner, loosely hugging their knees in something of a lifeless sprawl. Yet he could sense life, and hear the sounds of breathing.

            Blinking, he cleared his vision enough to take a look. It was a man, well-built, with very long red hair. They were probably around the same age; the man’s features were a bit on the harsh side, but his face was youthful and his skin unlined. The gaze of the man’s gold-colored eyes was fixed on him rather uncomfortably, but not warily at all. He wasn’t moving, just staring, as if he were only paying attention to the intrusion because it was something other than the rest of the room; his expression was quite blank.

            For a long time, the two men stared at each other; then his legs started to waver and he leaned against the wall of the landing, slowly sinking to his knees. He couldn’t push himself upright again.

            His breath was coming short and harshly now, but he smiled at the tower’s resident warmly and apologetically as he could.

            “Hello,” he said softly. “I think I’ve bled quite a bit on your stairs, unfortunately. I apologize for the mess, and for breaking in. I hope you don’t mind my hiding in here for a while—I had the misfortune to run afoul of the lord of Balin, and I can’t fight off all the soldiers after me on my own.” His injury was obvious, and probably spoke for itself, so he just kept smiling. “My name is Nessiah. I’m afraid I’ll be at your mercy for a bit, I don’t think I can move…”

            His voice trailed off and lost all its power, and his vision was dimming. All his body could do was slump against the wall; breathing was becoming harder and harder, and he thought vaguely that he could taste blood. It should have been painful, but everything was subsumed by the need to sleep and restore energy. His hand couldn’t keep its grip on his side, and it felt like the rush of blood was overwhelming his numb fingers.

            It would be very annoying if he died here, but he couldn’t keep himself awake any longer. There was nothing he could do about anything anymore; the heavy soporific warmth of the tower enveloped his body like a blanket, and then consciousness was a rug pulled out from under his unsteady feet. He fell, and was unable to surface.

 

-           -           -

 

            And after that, the man who’d called himself Nessiah didn’t move.

            The smell of blood was so strong. It scared him a little, but more frightening was the thought that this intruder might die. Beyond what he would do with the body and what his mother would say the next time she came back, he didn’t think he could take watching anyone else die.

            That was what eventually got him crossing the room to give Nessiah a closer look.

            It surprised him a little to realize that he was taller, but then it tended to surprise him that he was taller than his mother every time she arrived. It was that aura of certainty, of authority; at first glance, Nessiah had seemed older and taller and surer of himself, despite the spreading bloodstain along his side.

            He thought back over the vague lessons he’d had, flitted over the old memories, and undid the dark gray cloak and leather pack first to give himself a better look.

            Beneath them, Nessiah was wearing a white sleeveless robe, cinched tightly at the waist with a sash—probably for ease of movement. It was torn at the side, but the sash had been hitched up over the actual wound to create pressure. He shouldn’t remove it now, then.

            Indecision and nervousness wanted to resurface, but he pushed them away harshly and started down the stairs. The medical supplies were in the cellar. He knew that well enough; there had been times he’d hurt himself accidentally or purposefully and they had come in handy then. But the blood trailing over the stairs made him anxious, and he nearly tripped several times on the way down.

            The first aid kit was just where he remembered it would be, and he grabbed it, along with an armful of bandages and a packet of herbs. He did trip on the way back up, but not badly enough to spill his supplies—he was grateful; who knew if there would be time enough to run back down and get fresh bandages if he got these dirty.

            When he arrived back at the top of the tower, he set the supplies on the floor and knelt at Nessiah’s side, only hesitating to gather up his long hair, twist it into a tail, and shove it under his shirt—he couldn’t have it falling into his face now. Quickly but carefully, he undid the sash—and as he thought, that brought a fresh rush of blood from the wound. The smell made him feel slightly ill, and his body was starting to heat up, his own blood painfully hot and alien in his veins. Still, he bit his lip to steady himself and hiked up the skirts of the robes to give himself a clearer view of the wound.

            It was a clean slash and not particularly deep, but it must have severed an important artery going by how much blood kept flowing out of the cut. He pressed down over the injury with one hand, and tore open one of the spelled packages to pull out the wet cloth within. The stench of the herbs it had been soaked in made him want to reel, but he diligently wiped Nessiah’s skin clean over and around the wound.

            Next came cleaning out the wound itself, packing it carefully, and stitching it up. Blood was still trickling from between the closed flaps of skin, and so he covered the cut first with soft cloth that had been drenched in healing potion, and then with a few layers of thick padding. Carefully, he wound bandages around the compress to keep it on tight—without exerting pressure, all this hard work would be undone quickly.

            But that was all that he could do. He was no mage, and certainly not a healer. He just knew the same kinds of tricks that ordinary doctors did, and who knew how much use those would be.

            Hands still bloody, he rested back slightly and stared at Nessiah a bit more.

            His body was thin and small, but fit. It wouldn’t be wrong to call him frail, but there was more to him than that—or at least that was what it looked like to him. But Nessiah’s skin was ashen and covered in sweat, and he was breathing heavily. A cursory touch revealed that his forehead was heated.

            The injury in Nessiah’s side wasn’t warmer than the rest of his body, though; at least it wasn’t an infection. He would probably still recover this way.

            It was something to do. It was something to do other than brood in the corner; it was someone to take care of, and a rope cast down to save him from the memories, give him some respite at least.

            He stood, glancing around the room. The first step would be to wash the sweat off of Nessiah’s body. They could move on from there.

 

-           -           -

 

            Nessiah woke to the feeling of something soft against his back and warmth surrounding his body. After a brief moment of confusion as to where he could be and what had just happened, he recognized the sensation of warm bedsheets, along with a slight pain in his right side and the tight binding of bandages around his middle.

            And as he remembered being discovered and the chase to the haunted tower, he carefully pushed himself to sit upright, unable to suppress a wince as that slight pain flared angrily to life.

            “Please don’t move too much…”

            He looked up at the sound of the voice, and was bemused to see the redheaded resident of the tower sitting anxiously at the side of the bed.

            “You might hurt yourself. So please just lie still for now.”

            His voice was remarkably soft and his tone well-mannered for a man of his size. He might be younger than Nessiah had initially thought—and he was certainly well-dressed enough. For all that he’d been in the corner hugging his knees when Nessiah had arrived, he looked healthy, and his long hair appeared to be smooth and shone as though it had been washed recently. His facial features were carved, with the bridge of his nose, the line of his brow, and his cheekbones all a bit too harsh and prominent for traditional good looks; his skin had a slightly sallow cast to it that might just have been from lack of sun.

            But his softspokenness and the earnest look in his eyes (which were indeed quite gold, Nessiah noted again with some interest) said that he was still very young. Nessiah’s impression was that this man was quite sheltered; the victimized air he’d seemed to hold at their first meeting might just have been loneliness. He was in this place alone, after all.

            Before attempting to reply, Nessiah touched his own side, feeling at the bandages through his clothes. They held well, and seemed to have been wrapped with some skill.

            “You were the one who applied first aid, right?” he asked, smiling at the redheaded man. “Thank you for saving me.”

            And to his surprise, the man bowed his head and shook it, sending his long red hair fluttering. “There’s no need, you’re welcome—the fact that you’re all right is most important.”

            He couldn’t not smile, so he didn’t bother trying to suppress it. On a whim, he reached out and patted the other man’s head, lightly stroking his hair—it was very soft to the touch, so he kept doing it for a few moments longer, even as he jolted under the touch. “My, you’re well-behaved. What a good kid.”

            “Wha—” The redhead ducked out from under his hand at the words; he was blushing badly. “D-don’t treat me like a child…!”

            _But reacting like that just proves you’re still one, doesn’t it?_ Smiling broadly and trying not to break out laughing, Nessiah just tilted his head to the side. “Oh? How old are you?”

            The blush gave way to a sulk. “I’m twenty years old…”

            Nessiah raised his eyebrows and sat up straight again, not wincing this time even though his side protested the movement. “That’s unexpected… you’re actually older than me. I’m nineteen.”

            “I-is that so.” The blank expression on the other man’s face and the way he looked at his hands made Nessiah sure that they’d both been laboring under that misconception.

            “Well, you seem so sheltered, so I was sure you were younger than that.” Nessiah couldn’t help but smile again.

            His conversation partner made a slightly wounded sound and wilted.

            “You’re pretty cute, aren’t you? Hey, you don’t have to be so reserved—you are older and all.”

            “H-huh? But…”

            This time, he couldn’t hold back the giggle that kept trying to escape. “You turned red again…”

            “……” He lowered his chin and stared sulkily. _What a face._ “…Are you making fun of me?”

            “Sorry. You really are cute, so I couldn’t help it…”

            That was met with an even more pointed stare.

            “Oh, are you angry?”

            _“No.”_

            Nessiah couldn’t help it; there was no way he could hold it in anymore. Still, he clutched at his diaphragm, turning away as the soft laughter fought its way out.

            “Don’t laugh!”

            “But seriously, you’re just too cute…!”

            This time no retort came, so Nessiah was left just holding his stomach and trying to get himself under control as his companion’s blush deepened and he looked away sharply.

            “Anyway—really, thank you. I don’t know what I would have done if you hadn’t helped me. I might have actually bled out without you.”

            The redhead looked up slightly, warily, regarding Nessiah from the corner of his eye as if he wanted to make sure that he wasn’t going to get teased again before he committed to continuing the conversation.

            “And you haven’t even told me your name yet. What should I call you?” Nessiah smiled, putting as much warmth as he could into the words. He was being sincere, after all, and he wanted the redhead to understand that

            The response he got was another blush; Redhead didn’t seem to know where to look, and settled upon his hands after a few minutes of flustered glancing around. Line of sight intent on his lap, he interwove his fingers; the gesture was strange for a physically imposing young man. Nessiah would have expected it from a small child instead.

            “…My name is Gulcasa.”

            “That’s a strong name,” Nessiah mused aloud. It fitted his fierce features, his size, his apparent strength, and his skill—essentially, everything but his personality. “How long was I asleep, Gulcasa?”

            “…About three days. You had a fever, but your wound wasn’t infected. It just meant that it took longer for you to recover…”

            Nessiah smiled bitterly. “I wouldn’t have gotten in so much trouble if I hadn’t been sick. I only got this injury in the first place because I was a little slower on my feet than I should have been.” And reflexes were a damned important thing to have when you were trying to fight off an entire platoon of soldiers that had been warned about your magic.

            Then he frowned. Come to think of it, he didn’t feel particularly cold, and the bedsheets were comfortable against his skin…

            He rested the back of his left hand against his forehead and reached out his right to brush the backs of his fingers against Gulcasa’s (Gulcasa twitched again, but didn’t try to duck away once he saw what Nessiah was doing).

            “Mm, you’re actually warmer than I am. It looks like the fever is gone, then. So you took care of my injury _and_ my illness?” He pulled his hands away and rested them on the sheets, smiling again. “Apparently I have a lot of things to be grateful to you for.”

            Gulcasa was silent; from the flush on his cheeks and the way he was staring in the opposite direction, he was too embarrassed to say anything. No matter his actual age, he definitely seemed to be mentally younger than Nessiah—and that really was cute.

            “If—I can ask a question—”

            “Go ahead. I’m the one who’s intruding, after all.”

            “Why did you hide here…? No one ever comes here.” Gulcasa’s voice was faint, barely a murmur.

            “I heard rumors in town that this place was haunted. Ghosts don’t frighten me, but I thought that they might be enough to scare the soldiers chasing me away.” Ruefully, he shook his head, scratching lightly at his cheek. “I almost couldn’t figure out how to get in, though.”

            Gulcasa stared at him blankly.

            Nessiah considered him for a moment. “The entrance to this tower is magically concealed. I saw a woman leaving this place—a woman dressed like a priestess. If not for that, I would never have made it in.”

            Brief surprise crossed Gulcasa’s face, and he looked down at his hands again as if unsure. “…That’s… that must have been my mother that you saw, then. No one else ever comes to this place…”

            Now, what was that sudden subdued attitude for? Gulcasa obviously lived here, and he apparently lived here alone, so ordinarily one would think that occasional visits from a parent would be a good thing. Unless their relationship was strained—and Gulcasa’s polite, reserved demeanor, his shyness, and his relative childishness might be signs of extremely strict parenting.

            It probably wouldn’t be good to pry right now, though, so Nessiah chose not to ask.

            “Does she visit you often?”

            Gulcasa twisted a bit in his seat as if he wanted to start fidgeting. “…About… once every two weeks. You’ve been unconscious for three days, so… she should be back here in another week and a half.”

            Nessiah folded his arms and stared at Gulcasa levelly. “Would she be displeased to find me here? I don’t think that priestesses are the type to go outing fugitives to angry dukes, but then I might be stereotyping. And she might do just that if I’m still here and she’s the overprotective sort. If she were to fear for your safety, then I don’t think that just explaining my side of the circumstances would help me very much.”

            Gulcasa’s head lowered and his eyes dimmed. His back curled inward; it looked as though he would be collapsing into fetal position soon if he weren’t on a chair.

            “…She probably would. After all… I’m not supposed to talk to people from outside.”

            That sounded like _overprotective,_ all right. But the way Gulcasa was acting said that it was a lot more than that, and Nessiah looked at him with concern.

            “Gulcasa…” He drew in a breath, then asked. “How long have you been living in this place without contact from the outside, aside from your mother?”

            For a while it looked like Gulcasa wasn’t going to answer, but then—

            “…I was six years old at the time. So I’m sure it’s been fourteen years… give or take a few months.”

            Fourteen years. Nessiah felt a slight chill across his shoulders and along his upper back. That was…

            If he asked too harshly, it might wind up making things worse. So carefully, Nessiah folded his legs and pulled the covers back, sliding to sit on the side of the mattress, next to Gulcasa.

            “You haven’t been outside at all since then?” he asked softly. There wasn’t any answer, nor did Gulcasa look up at him.

            That was more than good enough of an answer, though. For whatever reason—whether it was just his mother being overly worried, or some outside circumstance—Gulcasa was imprisoned here, as surely as if he were physically chained to the wall.

            Gently, he reached out, brushing the fingertips of his left hand against Gulcasa’s right cheek to coax him to look up.

            “Why?”

            Gulcasa looked at him briefly, but then broke eye contact again. “I can’t—I can’t tell you. I… you would hate me.”

            “You already know that I’m a fugitive, and I’m many other things besides—an exile and what could be considered a heretic, to name a few. It would take a lot to impress me enough to make me hate you.” He controlled his tone carefully, keeping his words warm, his voice light.

            “—I’m a monster.” Gulcasa would not look at him, and brushed off Nessiah’s touch as he said the words, his voice hushed and choked with revulsion.

            “Gulcasa.” He stood, and drew Gulcasa’s chin back up with a little more force than before so that they were looking at each other again. This was important. He didn’t know why it was so important—aside from the days he’d spent unconscious in this man’s care, their acquaintance was comprised only of this short and rather awkward conversation—it just _was_ important, vitally so. “I don’t know what cause you have to say that, but from what I’ve seen of you thus far, you are absolutely nothing of the sort. Humanity, in the sense that it means being merciful and good… that’s measured more by _who_ you are than _what_ you are and what you’re capable of. The Gulcasa I know spent the past three days nursing a complete stranger back to health, even after that complete stranger broke into his home. And just talking with you is enough to tell me that you’re kind and polite. So you shouldn’t talk about yourself like that.”

            “But I—” Even as he began to protest, Gulcasa cut himself off, and turned away again—either he didn’t want to keep arguing, or the argument he wanted to make was hard for him to give voice to.

            Nessiah sat back down. He was beginning to feel rather shaky; he had been bedbound for three days, after all, and the pain of his injury was getting to levels that he couldn’t quite ignore any longer.

            Gulcasa brushed his forearm against his face hastily, then stood. “I’ll—I’ll get a change of bandages, and something for you to drink…”

            “Thank you. I’d appreciate that.”

            Gulcasa pushed his chair back and stood. He was doing his best not to face Nessiah, but there was the slightest flash of glassy eyes and a bitten lower lip before Gulcasa positively fled in the direction of the stairs.

 

-           -           -

 

            _Even as half of his heart cried out that it couldn’t bear the weight of the memories, the rest of it clung to them. In the isolation that he knew he deserved, that was all he had._

_The town was large, but not so large that he couldn’t cross the slums at night, especially since he knew their meeting place so well; she was already there when he arrived._

_“Where’s Jenon?”_

_Siskier just shrugged. “He said he can’t stay ‘cause his dad’ll get mad at him.”_

_This was as valid an excuse as anything. Siskier had no parents, and his father was dangerous, but from what they could tell, Jenon did have a pair, and they were strict. He didn’t want Jenon to get hit or get his dinner taken away, so sometimes things like this couldn’t be helped._

_They spread the old futon out under the stars and got under its covers. Even on this barren ground, bugs might crawl around, but he didn’t mind so much. They didn’t like him, so they wouldn’t even bother Siskier if he was there. It made him feel good that he could help, since she didn’t like bugs._

_The sky was dark and the stars were more points of light than he could count. It felt like they were the only people in the world, like everything else was far away. And that was fine with him. If Siskier was with him—if the adults were all gone—then he was safe._

_He closed his eyes and listened to her breathing. If he had bad dreams, she would be here to tell him they were only dreams and nothing to be scared of. If she had bad dreams, then he’d do the same for her. And then they could just go back to sleep holding hands, so that even in their dreams they would know that they weren’t alone._

 

-           -           -

 

            The next few days passed very quietly. Gulcasa didn’t speak much other than to offer things to Nessiah and ask how he was feeling, and Nessiah didn’t attempt to draw him into conversation. He just watched and thought.

            Gulcasa had trouble keeping eye contact, and even asking Nessiah to pull up his robes so that he might inspect the bandages while Nessiah was in bed with the covers drawn up to his lap seemed to be a terrible ordeal of embarrassment to him. Still, he was competent, his hands gentle but firm, the movements of his fingers sure. Whoever he had learned first aid from—likely his mother—had taught him well.

            He could also cook quite well. Apparently part of the reason his mother came back every two weeks was to keep the food in the cellar stocked; the well provided water to drink and bathe with. The tower was quite the self-contained home, and as long as food supplies kept arriving, there really wouldn’t be any need to leave it.

            Nessiah still couldn’t help but feel claustrophobic at the thought of staying here for fourteen years on end, though. It was probably Gulcasa’s contact with his mother that had been keeping him sane all this time; the solitary confinement wasn’t strictly solitary.

            “The only inconvenience in this place is having to go all the way downstairs to get to the privy,” Gulcasa said apologetically once while having to help Nessiah get there.

            There was a bookshelf in Gulcasa’s room, and it was fairly full. Approving, Nessiah asked about its contents once.

            “They’re mostly storybooks. My mother brought them for me… so that I don’t get too bored when I’m alone here, I suppose. I think my old textbooks from when she was teaching me to read and write are here too.”

            From the few things that Gulcasa said, Nessiah gathered that he had been poor and uneducated before he had come to live in the tower, and that all his education had been provided by his mother afterward, of course. He could read, write, and figure, but knew very little of history; he knew the name of the country and its capital, but had no idea who the Emperor was and could not name the neighboring country at all.

            “I suppose I don’t need to know things like that in a place like this, after all,” Gulcasa said, but the only discomfort in his voice seemed to be worry that he might be disappointing Nessiah somehow. After fourteen years, he had accepted that this was where he would spend the rest of his life. “All I really know of the world is this place and the town where I was born, Tiera.”

            “That was where I heard about this place from,” Nessiah mentioned, but he didn’t give Gulcasa the full context of the conversation.

           Gulcasa never spoke of his father. It would have led Nessiah to believe that he was illegitimate and raised by his mother, except that his mother had provided his education—such that it was—and yet had not been there to do any educating during her son’s early life. Had he spent those first six years with his father, or had he been an abandoned child? And why had his mother only come back into his life to seal him away in a tower?

            There were far too many questions, and Nessiah knew better than to just ask Gulcasa outright. Instead, he just paid attention to the possible meanings behind the things that Gulcasa talked about, and kept his silence. It would take his wound some time to heal; he wouldn’t be leaving anytime soon. And while he was here—it wasn’t much in the way of repayment, but he wanted to do what he could for Gulcasa. The few facts he knew for certain, along with his own dim theories, disturbed him on levels that he couldn’t properly articulate.

            As it transpired, he’d managed to transport his belongings with him safely without getting them bled upon overmuch. He let Gulcasa have the bread he’d brought from the inn, which they ate before it could become stale; on the fifth day, he was able to get up and dig out his spellbook on his own before his legs became too weak to support him fully and he had to sit back down on the bed. He still felt better with its familiar weight in his arms.

            He asked for a quill and ink, which Gulcasa readily supplied, and worked out a few spell diagrams and wrote about the events since his flight from Balin to pass the time.

            Once, Gulcasa apparently found the temptation to peek over Nessiah’s shoulder too much to bear; Nessiah continued writing steadily for a few minutes and then looked up, smiling, at the curiosity and confusion on Gulcasa’s face.

            “…I can’t read it. What language is that?”

            “It certainly isn’t one in use in this part of the world.” Nessiah smiled and passed his fingers over the ink that had already dried, half-closing his eyes against the shimmer of the ancient letters. “I come from a land that’s very far away from here; I’ve been traveling for a long time now. I was exiled from the country where I was born, and I have no desire to return to it. There’s nothing there for me anymore.”

            He looked up again; Gulcasa’s expression suggested that he wasn’t sure quite what to say.

            “It’s all right.” Nessiah smiled at him to reassure him. “If I were ashamed of that fact, or if it were still painful, then I wouldn’t have told you.”

          “…Still.” Gulcasa glanced away again, then briefly back toward Nessiah, then shook his head. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t…”

            “On the contrary, I’m a stranger in your home; you have every right to be curious about where I’m from and what my past is like. Come sit down,” he said quietly, and patted the mattress.

            Gulcasa would not be coaxed to sit on the bed, but he did pull his chair across the room and sit down at arm’s length away.

            “Why… keep all of your notes in your old language?” he asked after a brief silence.

            “Because I’m a snob about my handwriting, and I have more training in my native calligraphy than yours. I like the curls and the shapes of the letters, and it’s soothing to look at. Besides,” he said with a laugh, “this way it’s harder for people I don’t like to figure out what I’m writing in here. Most of the things I’ve been putting down over the past few days are just diary-type things. See?”

            As Gulcasa obviously couldn’t make heads or tails of the letters, Nessiah showed him how both their names would be written in the margin space of one of the filled pages. Gulcasa obediently looked over the writing and was able to point out places where he saw his own name, smiling with a childlike pride of accomplishment on his face.

            And then his expression became anxious once again.

            “But… why would you even want to write about me? I…”

            “I’ve said it before, and I’ll say it again—you’re cute. You’re also kind, and you’ve revealed yourself to be an ideal house-husband. Writing about you is much more enjoyable than writing about how my wound still hurts or how frustrating it is not to be able to stand up for very long.” He reached out and lightly brushed his fingers through Gulcasa’s hair. “So I think I’ll keep writing about you.”

            Gulcasa blushed brilliantly and said nothing. Nessiah smiled and tried to keep his voice down as the giggles broke out.

            Later, once night had fallen and Gulcasa was turning the lamps down, Nessiah beckoned him over.

            “I know you’ve been sleeping wherever you can find a comfortable corner or patch of floor all this time, but really, that’s not good for you. I’m sure I can’t persuade you to actually share the bed, even though it seems like it would fit both of us” Gulcasa was already shaking his head frantically, making his long hair flutter like wildfire “so at least sleep near here. Get a chair and lean on the mattress. I’m sure that will be more comfortable than what you’ve been doing.”

            Gulcasa protested for a while, but eventually he did give in. He also fell asleep rather quickly, leaving Nessiah free to stare down at him and carefully brush fingertips through his long hair.

            It was a bad idea, and he knew it, but not even the things he’d experienced throughout his life were enough to beat his sense of justice out of him entirely. His common sense was tiredly protesting that he was just asking for trouble, considering bringing someone who was in a very real sense still a child along on his travels, especially when he was still wanted by the duke—but it would pipe down soon.

            _Even if he’s a child, he’s a good child; I’m sure it’ll be all right._ Nessiah looked down at Gulcasa and smiled. _And right now what’s most important is to get him out of here. A beast in a cage too small for it never has long to live, after all._

            Maybe—if only just a little bit—this was for his own sake, too.

            After all, they’d only been together for about a week—and Nessiah had been asleep for the first three days of it—but he didn’t like the thought of leaving Gulcasa and never seeing him again.

            Attachment—it was such an arbitrary thing, but it couldn’t be undone so easily. And Nessiah was wise enough to know when to yield to it.

 

-           -           -

 

            _It had been just an ordinary day in the slums. No one was around causing trouble today, and so he and Siskier had been out playing around idly in the marketplace; once again, Jenon was absent, for his parents needed him for something at home. That was all right; they were more than capable of amusing themselves with one of their number gone._

_“C’mon, I think there’s a vendor that’s got stuff they’re giving out, they made too many buns or something—”_

_He let her take his hand, and they slipped through a back alley and toward the old lane of houses that would take them to the other side of the market fastest—_

_Everything from that point on was the oddest combination of muddled and perfectly clear. He couldn’t remember the exact words said, but the sound of those old familiar footsteps still chilled his heart. He had frozen, and stopped dead, and Siskier had felt him stop and turned around and—_

_The hand gripping the back of his shirt, and pulling them apart—the thick fingers that wrapped into his hair and threw him harshly to the ground, the rough gravel opening bloody cuts all along his side._

_Siskier shouting._

_The first thing he saw when he forced his body to uncurl was her running at the old man, yelling for him to stop. And then, as if in slow motion, the slice of the back of his hand connecting with her face._

_It was as if there was a wall around his heart. In the time that it took for Siskier to sprawl along the ground, it shattered as if all that time, it had been made of poorly-crafted glass._

_“Don’t touch her! Don’t you touch her! DON’T YOU FUCKING TOUCH HER!!”_

_And as the words ripped their way out of his throat, heat flashed over his body—like and unlike a fever; it felt like the blood in his veins had turned to molten metal, and as it ate away at his body, power flowed in its wake. He was all of six years old, and his father was a towering nightmare, but the idea that even such a man as that could be a threat to him now was laughable._

_He launched himself forward, with no real concept of what he was doing—it was just that he wouldn’t let this happen, he didn’t care what happened to him, but he couldn’t stand the thought that Siskier might be hurt—that he would far rather kill his own father than see a single bruise on her face—_

_And then everything was on fire, and there was blood all over his body, and there was no way out and Siskier was crying for him, but he couldn’t see where she was, and everything was cracking and falling down and the sky was getting choked with smoke and all he knew was that his body was hot and the fire had inexplicably come from him, and Siskier was screaming now, and he kept looking frantically over the tops of the flames to try to find flashes of blond hair, but everything was on fire, even his own body—but it didn’t hurt him, and so maybe she was just scared, not hurt, not—_

_But she kept screaming and screaming and the sound was getting worse and worse and he couldn’t find her and then finally she went silent and the only sound was the snapping of the fire, and his own voice, calling her name over and over until it cracked and dried and disappeared, even though he still tried to force it to work until he felt like his throat would bleed—_

            “Siskier—!”

            A pair of arms was wrapped around him tightly, holding him to someone’s warm chest. He struggled, then began to realize that he was in the tower, and was awake.

            And it hit him all over again, the way that it always did, that she was gone, that she was dead and it was his fault, as much his fault as if he’d choked the life out of her with his own hands.

            “It isn’t your fault,” a soft voice said to him, and the arms holding him tightened. He’d been speaking out loud, he realized, and burned with shame even as the tears continued to fall. “Gulcasa, it was an accident. And we call things accidents because no one means for them to happen.”

            “But I—” All that intent to kill, all that pent-up rage—if he’d been a better son, then he wouldn’t have had to bear any of it in the first place, and it wouldn’t have exploded out of him and entangled Siskier in the results along with his father. And even if he hadn’t willed it to happen—that was just his nature. He was a monster, after all, a demon in human’s skin. His power existed to create misery and cause destruction; that was what his mother had told him when she’d arrived to pull him out of the smoldering wreckage, and he had to live with the proof of that every day.

            “You were six years old,” Nessiah said, his voice unbearably gentle, “which is too young to control your power even if you had known about it—and your blood ran rampant in self-defense against what you saw as a life-threatening situation for you and someone you loved. It was a terrible accident, one which you could not have known would happen, and one you cannot be blamed for.”

            “…But I—wanted him to die.”

            Nessiah did not try to tell him that the wishes of his six-year-old self should be dismissed; instead, those patient hands traced the length of his spine, his body swaying very slightly. “He hurt you, didn’t he? He abused you even more obviously than your mother is now; I’m not a moral judge, but I can’t blame you. I think that if I were in your shoes, I would have felt exactly the same.”

            He couldn’t say anything in response; gently, Nessiah pulled back, then leaned in. Gulcasa felt a soft touch at his forehead that he realized belatedly was a kiss, and then Nessiah’s fingers were brushing over his cheeks, interrupting the tear tracks.

            The moonlight fell upon Nessiah from the window, and looking up at him, Gulcasa thought that he seemed unearthly, almost inhuman—his white clothes and pale skin were given a blue cast in the darkness, and his deep green eyes held the light of the stars like a cat’s.

            Lightly, Nessiah’s hand came to rest over Gulcasa’s heart, and stayed there.

            “I don’t think that my words will make much difference yet, after what you’ve spent your entire life being told. But you are not a monster; you are an extraordinarily gifted young man—not least because of your ability to feel remorse for something that you didn’t intend to set in motion.”

            He didn’t know what to say. No one had ever spoken to him like this, not since he’d lost Siskier. But once Nessiah seemed to realize that he couldn’t speak, he framed Gulcasa’s face with careful hands.

            “So I’ll keep telling you this—over and over, until you hear me say so more times than your mother has called you inhuman. I’ll keep telling you these words until you’re able to realize that there might be some truth to them.”

 

-           -           -

 

            It took a while for Gulcasa to actually calm down and fall asleep, but Nessiah didn’t mind it. He certainly wasn’t about to fall asleep himself, after the shock of Gulcasa’s nightmare—he’d heard people talk vaguely or cry in their sleep, but never scream like that.

            At least he’d managed to get Gulcasa up on the mattress without much fuss or protesting; there were faint violet shadows under his eyes that said he was worn down. Sleeping in uncomfortable places while spending all his time nursing Nessiah had probably spread him too thin.

            Nessiah folded his legs beneath him and continued stroking Gulcasa’s long hair. The repetitive motion was soothing for him, and helped provide a background for his thoughts.

            As soon as he’d known that Gulcasa was asleep, he’d done what he honestly should have back when he’d first arrived here, the first time he’d heard Gulcasa claim that he was a monster. Gently, with as featherlight a touch as he’d ever employed, he had examined Gulcasa’s body for traces of magical power.

            It was being suppressed—probably due to Gulcasa’s own fear—but once he’d taken the time to actually look, it was easy for Nessiah to sense it. There was indeed magical power running through Gulcasa’s veins—to be specific, demon blood.

            But that wasn’t so unusual for the people of this country. Nessiah closed his eyes and let his hand come to a rest in the middle of Gulcasa’s back, thumb still moving back and forth as if he were petting a cat.

          Because, after all, this was the Empire. It was the only empire on the continent, so people generally called it “the Empire” rather than its proper name, Bronquia. The name _Bronquia_ meant “land of the sleeping dragon”; legend had it that over a thousand years ago, a demon god had appeared upon these lands. Nowadays people mostly considered that to be half fairy tale, but Nessiah knew that it was true. That demon god, a great dragon called Brongaa, had contracted with a clan of humans before it had been killed by a mortal hero, and those humans had gone on to establish Bronquia, becoming its ruling body. The Imperial family, having partaken of a demon god’s blood, had been changed—they were more demon than human themselves, and were able to draw on the strength of their patriarch, becoming many times more powerful than ordinary humans and obtaining an affinity with fire.

            A thousand years was a long time, though, and over that expanse, that bloodline became diluted—so much so that nowadays, just about everyone in Bronquia or with Bronquian ancestors had a little bit of demon blood in his or her veins.

            And every now and then, two people with enough of a connection to the old line would marry and have children, and those children would display signs of being the ancient dragon’s descendants. In this day and age, due to tensions between this nation and others that feared that kind of power, children born with demon blood were considered unlucky, much the way that twins had been viewed a few centuries ago.

            Nessiah had done quite a lot of traveling and studying in his lifetime, so he knew all of that, and knew enough to recognize the signs of Brongaa’s blood when he actually bothered to look for them.

            The problem was that considering what was normal among such people, Gulcasa’s blood was unusually potent. Remembering what the people in town had said about the fire fourteen years ago, Nessiah could readily imagine what a hell it must have looked like. The same as with young mages, people with abilities like Gulcasa’s tended to have breaks in control; until they were taught how to use their power at will and make it obey them, their abilities would erupt to life in response to their owners’ fear and adrenaline in order to protect them.

            And for anyone as strong as Gulcasa, that could be disastrous for any innocent bystanders.

            If Gulcasa had been born in ancient Bronquia, he would have started learning from a young age at least how to ground and center himself so as to suppress his abilities before he could use them consciously. But now…

            Nessiah opened his eyes as the image of the woman dressed in white floated up from his subconscious, and he reached out to place his palm against Gulcasa’s cheek.

            “Let me guess,” he murmured, his voice as quiet as his breath. “Somehow or other, your parents recognized what you are, and your mother left when you were still a baby—whether that was because she feared your powers or wanted to find a way to contain them. When she didn’t return, your father grew to hate you, and you took the brunt of that. Not even understanding your abilities yourself, you had no way to predict what would happen that day, and whatever had been holding your powers in couldn’t stand up to your fear and your rage.

            “And then wherever she was, your mother heard about the disaster and knew that it could only have been you, so she imprisoned you here to keep you from accidentally causing anyone else any harm.”

            There was no longer any question to it. He had to get Gulcasa out of this place. There was no guarantee that another tragedy wouldn’t occur unless Gulcasa was properly trained in how to use and control his abilities, and Nessiah knew enough about Brongaa’s blood that he could at least make sure that Gulcasa knew the basics.

            And eventually, if left here by himself—he would suffocate and die, crushed by his loneliness and his self-hatred. Nessiah was determined to keep that from happening.

            So he sat up and waited, half-dozing and half in deep meditative thought, until Gulcasa finally awakened, shaking off sleep and sitting on the side of the bed with a subdued air hanging about him. Nessiah shifted to sit next to him.

            “I’m sorry—” Gulcasa began, not looking him in the face as usual, but Nessiah reached out and rested his fingertips to Gulcasa’s lips to shut him up.

            “I don’t want to hear it—you have nothing to feel sorry about. I have a proposition for you, one that I’ve been considering for a while. In a few days, once my wound has finished healing enough for me to set out—will you come with me?”

            Gulcasa actually appeared to forget his shyness for a few moments, and stared—then flushed and dropped his gaze again.

            “No, look at me. I don’t expect deference, and it feels too strange coming from someone of your size. Look at me—be sure that I mean the things that I’m saying.” With an expression of distinct unwillingness, Gulcasa obeyed, lifting his head to look at Nessiah indirectly.

            _Well, that’s something to go on, at least. We’ll work on it._

            “Will you come with me?” he asked again, smiling a little. “I can take you away from here—far enough that you can forget this tower if you’re sick of the memories. And this isn’t a good environment for you.”

            “—Why?” The word burst out as though Gulcasa had been straining to keep it inside, and there was a conflicted expression on his face. “Why would you—why me?”

            “Well, let’s see. There are actually quite a few reasons,” Nessiah said mildly, tilting his head in a way that he knew full well made him look coquettish. “First of all, I owe you my life. I consider that to be an important debt well worth repaying, and I know that it’s cost you to spend your every waking minute waiting on my every need. I know that it’s also a change from your boredom, but you’ve been doing this for over a week now.

            “After that, there’s the matter of your power. As one who studies the ways of magic, it’s my responsibility to make sure that people with special abilities like yours—whether they come from conventional magic or latent demon blood—are taught how to handle them. Gulcasa, I think you’re fully aware how dangerous you can be if you’re threatened—and while your mother’s solution of sealing you inside this tower has put off the problem, it hasn’t solved it.”

            There was anxiety on Gulcasa’s face now, but Nessiah knew that he couldn’t stop. He reached out to place his hands over Gulcasa’s and squeezed them lightly, trying to speak as compassionately as possible.

            “I came here, didn’t I? Priests and mages will be able to break through the enchantments on this place, and not all of them will find you as charming as I do. Robbers armed with magic, people who will see an innocent and attractive young man and want to take advantage of him, zealots who feed their egos by hunting down those with traces of inhuman blood in their veins—there are so many possibilities. And Gulcasa, your abilities have grown along with your body. Your power is much stronger now than it was fourteen years ago. If someone tries to attack you and you lose control again—other innocent people might be hurt, or you might harm yourself. Someone with experience has to teach you how to control your blood—and control it properly; your abilities are double-edged. I know enough about the source of your powers to at least get you started, and this tower is no environment to teach in.”

            Gulcasa had gone pale as Nessiah spoke, and now he was looking down at their braided fingers as if he might cry. Nessiah extricated his left hand, reaching out to cup Gulcasa’s cheek and tilt his face back up.

            “Even if you got away unscathed, I—I’ve seen the way you feel about your powers now. If you ever hurt someone else without intending to again—I worry that it might kill you. And I don’t want that.”

            Gulcasa took a deep breath and closed his eyes as if resolving himself. Nessiah didn’t pull his hand away, but instead traced the line of Gulcasa’s cheekbone.

            “Which leads me to the most important reason. I like you; I think this place is bad for you, so I want to take you away from here. I don’t like the idea of leaving and maybe never seeing you again.” He scooted a little closer to Gulcasa so that his shoulder nearly touched Gulcasa’s upper arm; when Gulcasa opened his eyes, he flinched a little in surprise at having Nessiah so close.

            Nessiah did not back away. He shifted the hand on Gulcasa’s cheek to the nape of his neck, and slipped his other hand between both of Gulcasa’s, so that the redhead was clasping it as if making a vow. And as he did so, Gulcasa’s face started to redden; by the time Nessiah settled with their faces not even a foot apart, he was blushing quite vibrantly, and couldn’t look away.

            “So let’s run away together,” he said quietly, and in the space between words, between breaths, Nessiah almost felt as though he could hear Gulcasa’s heart beating; it made him smile. Staring at Gulcasa so that he couldn’t mistake a single word, he leaned in softly so that they were almost nose to nose. “Elope with me.”

            Gulcasa was staring at him back, those long golden eyes desperate, not quite believing.

            “I—” he began uncertainly, but before he could say anything else, Nessiah leaned in to cut him off with a very light and brief kiss.

            When he pulled away and sat up straight, Gulcasa’s expression had gone from desperate to poleaxed, and his face was redder than Nessiah had ever seen it.

            And he stayed sitting still like that, frozen; Nessiah was just starting to wonder if he’d perhaps actually managed to send Gulcasa into a state of shock when Gulcasa’s hands found his clumsily, then held them.

            “I—” Gulcasa began again, then stopped himself, looking away. He was squeezing Nessiah’s hands with considerable strength, and tried to speak once more only to cut himself off again. It took two more false starts—through which Nessiah waited very patiently—to screw up the courage to use his voice. “I want… I—want to go with you.”

            Nessiah let out the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding, and smiled again.

            “I’m glad,” he murmured, and shifted to get his knees under him, balancing on them so that he could leave another soft kiss on Gulcasa’s forehead without having to pull him down.

 

-           -           -

 

            He’d said it; the hardest part was over.

            The new hardest part was the wait. Gulcasa had made his decision and would stand by it, but the anxiety was building day by day now that he knew he would be leaving this place for good soon. His mother had told him so many times that leaving the tower was the taboo of all taboos, after all.

            She would probably understand—she hadn’t known that there might be someone like Nessiah who could help him, after all—but the thought of disobeying her so hugely still made him nervous.

            “I still can’t move too much, but we can at least pack now,” Nessiah had told him, and so that was what he did, gathering up everything he thought he might want or need and making sure he could carry it all.

            Nessiah also warned him that they might have to be very careful and move quickly as soon as they left—the army sent by the duke he’d angered might still be searching for him.

            “If it comes down to a battle, you’ve nothing to worry about—I’ll protect you. And there are cities where we’ll be able to take shelter—the capital is only a few days’ travel from here; that should be safe, and if it isn’t, we can cross the border and stay in the country neighboring this one for a while.”

            While they waited, Nessiah also spent time walking up and down the stairs and around the room to build the strength in his legs back up, and get used to carrying his own weight again. He got tired easily, but thus far he seemed to be pleased with his recovery.

            “I should be able to travel again in just a few days’ time. That’s when we’ll leave.”

            In between consulting with Nessiah about how much of the food in the cellar could be packed and checking and doublechecking the bookshelf mournfully—there was no way that all of the books could come along—Gulcasa spent hours at a time sitting next to Nessiah on the mattress, just talking.

            Nessiah told stories about the various countries he’d traveled through, and they talked about books—Nessiah had read a lot of Gulcasa’s favorites, and they spent some time discussing the merits of the authors’ style and the strange things that characters in stories tended to do.

            And every bit as enjoyable as the talks themselves, there was the feeling of Nessiah’s warmth beside him. Gulcasa basked in it. It was something that he hadn’t been able to experience since Siskier had died and his mother had found him—the warmth of another living being.

            When he turned to look at Nessiah, it still kept surprising him that he was the taller of the two of them. It always felt as though with Nessiah’s knowledge, he should be the one who was older and taller; he gave off the presence of someone much larger than his real height. Maybe it was a little silly to be surprised by a thing like that at a time like this, but it was like the undercurrent of physicality reinforced the way that he wanted to think.

            Nessiah reached out to hold his hand often, and when they sat side by side, it was always close enough that their skin would touch. The warmth of Nessiah’s smiles had grown considerably, and they seemed to be brighter every day; Gulcasa would turn around and whatever he wanted to say would be lost as he was transfixed by half-closed green eyes mostly-obscured in blond hair and the soft curving of Nessiah’s lips.

            And Nessiah seemed to know full well what effect he was having, because it made him laugh, and he kept doing it whenever Gulcasa could possibly be caught unawares. It always worked, and so the only time Gulcasa could consider himself safe was when he was cooking.

            It was as though his heart had withered in a state of constant gloom for all of his life, and everything choking it had been cut away in a single graceful sweep, exposing him to warmth and sunlight for the very first time. And basking in the affection, those newly budded emotions flourished, erupting into riotous bloom.

            Despite all those years of reading, it was something that was hard to articulate. These were words he had never thought he would have the chance to use, and things he’d only ever read about in books, never experienced himself.

            Kissing, for instance. He was anything but good at it, but Nessiah just laughed and patiently taught him where his hands were supposed to go, how he was supposed to use his tongue, and when he should breathe, all quite without shame.

            “You’ll get used to it after a while. Besides, you’re already catching on, aren’t you?”

            Aside from the kissing and the hand-holding and the fact that Gulcasa now felt justified in looking at Nessiah when they talked—even if actually staring him in the face was still difficult—not that much had changed between them since Nessiah had phrased his proposal as an elopement.

            There was a lot of talk about what the actual travel was going to be like, since Gulcasa was inexperienced at taking to the road and there was no way to measure his stamina in comparison to his strength. And that was enough to make him think about some things that were very embarrassing.

            Still—there was another day or so until the time they had planned to leave, and after that all their energy would be put towards surviving the road and finding a safe place for Gulcasa to begin learning how to control his power. This was an opportunity, if he wanted to seize it.

            And he knew that it was dangerous to let things remain unsaid—it was never possible to predict whether this would be your last chance.

            He hadn’t said it yet, even—well, Nessiah hadn’t said anything like that either, so it made him nervous thinking that he might be the only one who wanted to. And he wanted to.

            That night—they’d eaten, they’d put their things away, they’d gotten the bags in order and the light through the windows was roseate gold. As usual, Nessiah was sitting on the edge of the mattress; he was staring out the window with a distant look on his face.

            He halted a few feet away from the bed, and clasped his hands behind his back. “May I…?”

            Nessiah looked up with him with a blank expression as though startled, then smiled and nodded. “It _is_ your bed, after all,” he said as Gulcasa sat down, lifting his legs up onto the mattress and folding them. After that, he went back to staring outside.

            “What is it?”

            “I keep thinking. For so long, the view from here was all you were able to see of the world, and that’s all going to change tomorrow. It’s a big step.”

            Gulcasa leaned forward and down until his forehead was touching Nessiah’s back.

            “I love you,” he murmured, closing his eyes and sinking down further as he felt his cheeks begin to burn bright.

            He felt the muscles of Nessiah’s back shift, and then the next thing he knew, slender arms were wrapped over his back, and his face was pressed against Nessiah’s chest.

            “Thank you,” Nessiah said softly, his voice sweet. “It makes me happy to hear you say that.”

            “And…” Trying to force his racing heart to slow down, he raised his head a little, enough to glance up into Nessiah’s face. “How do you feel… about me?”

            Nessiah closed his eyes and lifted one hand from Gulcasa’s back to rest it over his own heart.

            “When I’m with you, my chest is filled with light. It’s a very airy feeling, a beautiful sensation with no name. I’m sure that, as well-read as I am, I could put terms to it if I wanted to, but it’s only bloomed so recently, you see. It’s very frail and I’m not sure how well-sustained it is. I don’t want to weigh it down with heavy words like ‘love’… this beautiful nameless feeling.”

            It was certainly the prettiest way of talking oneself out of having to answer a question that Gulcasa had ever heard, and he was about to remark on it when Nessiah leaned down and kissed his forehead, then his cheek, then lined their bodies up angle to curve, his lips finding a sensitive spot along the side of Gulcasa’s throat that made him gasp softly and drained all the strength from his body. His back hit the mattress and he was left looking up at Nessiah, who had planted a hand to either side of him and was smiling down with his dull gold hair all tumbled like a lazy thunderhead.

            On impulse, he reached up and ran the tips of his fingers over Nessiah’s cheek, tracing the line of his throat down to the sharp angles of his clavicle. Nessiah made a soft low sound—Gulcasa felt the rumble of it against the back of his fingers, a soft buzz like a bee in a bell jar—and then he was sinking down onto his elbows so that their bodies were pressed in close, and he closed his eyes at the touch of Nessiah’s lips against his, sinking into a soft and lovely dream.

 

-           -           -

 

            The sun was going down.

            Gulcasa’s fingers were clenched loosely in the front of Nessiah’s robes, and he was panting harshly and shallowly in thin little kitten breaths as Nessiah kneaded the side of his throat with kisses.

            It was probably just out of his own inexperience, but Gulcasa was so helpless at every movement he made. It was almost addicting, being able to dominate someone who was so physically imposing so very thoroughly.

            But Nessiah pulled himself back, reined himself in; this wasn’t the time, and in the press of their bodies, he could tell that Gulcasa was more than aroused enough already. There was no need to be a tease, and anyway Gulcasa might faint if he didn’t get the chance to breathe properly.

            While he levered himself up on hands and knees, Gulcasa closed his eyes and worked on breathing more deeply, but didn’t loosen his grip on Nessiah’s clothes enough for him to sit up all the way or really move much at all.

            “Why are you stopping?” Gulcasa asked at last, his eyes opening halfway. They were honey-colored and blurred with the heady intoxication of lust, the pupils rather overly dilated; his face was flushed and his chest still heaving invitingly, his voice quiet and indistinct.

            Nessiah rested more of his weight to the left so that he could cup Gulcasa’s cheek in his right hand. “Even if you really are ready for this—and I’m not sure that you are—there are a few things we’d need to make certain that you wouldn’t be hurt; this would be your first time, after all. And even if you have a proper substitute downstairs, that’s a long way to go and a long hunt to make. By the time we finished, the moment would already be dead and buried.”

            “Oh.” Gulcasa blinked hazily, but lay still, apparently physically incapable of making himself let go by now; he just lay and breathed and stared up at Nessiah in an unintentionally sultry sort of way.

            “Besides, there’s still this.” Nessiah tilted his head slightly to indicate his mostly-healed wound. “Too much exertion would strain it. I don’t know whether it would open back up or not, but I’d rather not find out firsthand.”

            “Oh,” Gulcasa said again, and they lapsed into that partial silence and the backdrop of rushed breathing.

            It was that look. Nessiah would have liked to challenge anyone to attempt to resist it, but no one was there to disparage him for being unable to, and so he just leaned down and grazed his lips over Gulcasa’s, repeating the motion with a shallow kiss and then a more involved one.

            “Well,” Nessiah said as brightly as he could while struggling for air, “there are a few less strenuous ways that I can make you feel good, if you’d let me.”

            He could tell when the import of the sentence sunk in, because Gulcasa’s eyes quickly regained their intelligence, and blood rushed fiercely back into his cheeks.

            “If you’re going to—but I want—I want to make you feel good, too—”

            And that was how Nessiah came to be sitting on the edge of the mattress, the skirts of his robes gathered up at his waist, with Gulcasa kneeling on the floor in front of him.

            “Are you sure about this?” he asked in a murmur, for Gulcasa’s face was quite as red as his hair, and it was getting hard to imagine how he was able to spare enough blood for functions like breathing and thinking.

            Gulcasa didn’t say anything, but he nodded, the tiny movement amplified by the sway of his long hair.

            Nessiah smiled a little, wryly. “How do you even understand how this is done, anyway? You’ve spent your entire life here, after all.”

            “I-I—I read about it in a book once.” His voice was very small. Nessiah supposed that it was harder to resolve oneself to go through with this when being stared in the face with it, so to speak.

            “…What _has_ your mother been letting you read?” Unbidden, the edge of a giggle stole into his voice.

            “B-be quiet! I’m trying to concentrate…”

            Nessiah bit his lip and fell silent; Gulcasa took a deep breath and reached.

            The contact of Gulcasa’s fingers against his skin sent a shiver throughout his whole body, but the touch of his lips—the sudden wetness and heat of his mouth—made his breath catch.

            It soon became clear that despite whatever he had read, Gulcasa still was not quite sure how to go about this; he must only have gotten the general idea. His movements were hesitant and shy, and he was still just holding the length of Nessiah’s flesh in his mouth rather than actually doing anything at all.

            But it had been quite some time since Nessiah had paid any attention to his sexual needs at in the least, and the warmth and Gulcasa’s intent expression and his blush more than made up for his lack of expertise. It only took a few minutes for Nessiah’s breathing to become staggered and his face and chest to flush with agonizing levels of pleasure.

            “Gulcasa—,” he said a little desperately, short of breath and knotting his fingers into the sheets to keep from fisting them in that long red hair, “that’s enough—I can’t hold back for much longer—”

            If Gulcasa even heard him say it, then he certainly didn’t take heed—if anything, his efforts redoubled, and the feel of Gulcasa’s breath rushing against the bare skin of his lower belly and the pressure of his tongue managed to systematically destroy what little control he had left. Nessiah closed his eyes as his back arched and his muscles tightened, and he came in one sharp bright burst of relief. Gulcasa choked briefly, the sound distant, but then Nessiah could feel the inside of his mouth and the muscles of his throat working as he swallowed hard.

            The intensity of the pleasure ebbed into relaxation as Gulcasa sat back, and Nessiah opened his eyes, still breathing a little unevenly.

            Gulcasa was sitting sprawled, the curve of his back in a slouch, supporting himself with his hands; his eyes were half-lidded and clouded with lust, and there were white stains along his cheek and trailing from the edge of his lips.

            “You didn’t have to keep going,” Nessiah murmured patiently, leaning forward so that he could wipe Gulcasa’s face clean. “Your hair will just get dirty like this, and that would just be a shame.”

            “I wanted… to.” Gulcasa’s voice was thick, and he spoke as if half-dreaming.

            “Come up here.” The way he was acting, it wouldn’t be fair to leave him wanting for much longer, at any rate.

            It took a bit of maneuvering, but after a few tries, Nessiah was successfully able to get Gulcasa up on the mattress with him. They sat facing each other; Nessiah brought Gulcasa forward so that he was leaning his forehead to Nessiah’s shoulder, and slid a hand down his chest and belly to the front of his pants.

            Gulcasa tensed immediately, and held on to Nessiah so tightly that it almost hurt. He had to smile, and put his free arm around Gulcasa’s shoulders while he moved his hand in quick firm strokes.

            Almost as soon as he’d started, Gulcasa’s breathing was reduced to sharp gasps, his face bright red and tremors running through his entire body. The sight of it made Nessiah smile—the simple fact that he could please someone to this degree with just a touch.

            Gulcasa was fighting hard to keep control of his voice, but low moans continued to escape every time he exhaled, until finally he stuttered out Nessiah’s name as a long shudder made its way up his back. Nessiah smiled, held him close, and continued to stroke him as he climaxed.

            He closed his eyes, and leaned his cheek against Gulcasa’s temple as the redhead’s breathing began to return to normal; this was more than enough for now.

 

-           -           -

 

            _They were walking side by side, hand in hand; it was night, and all he had to guide himself was the town lanterns like overlarge fireflies and Siskier’s hand in his._

_It wasn’t too far away to his destination, he remembered vaguely; it was with a sense of relief that he kept walking—until there was a sharp jerk from Siskier’s hand. He turned to her, and saw through the dim illumination that she was standing still._

_“This is where I have to stop,” she told him, giving his hand a squeeze and smiling at him warmly. “You know the rest of the way, right? I’ll watch ‘til you get there, so go ahead.”_

_There was a part of him that wanted to cling to her hand and refuse to let go and try to stay with her, but there was something even more important waiting for him at the end of the road._

_Releasing her hand was probably the hardest thing he’d ever done, but Siskier was smiling at him. Her expression was still telling him that everything was okay._

_He turned to face the darkness, and her hand gave his upper back a light, encouraging pat._

_Taking a deep breath, he started to run._

 

-           -           -

 

            It was well into the day by the time that Nessiah woke.

            He was lying atop the bed, his body still tangled up in Gulcasa’s; they hadn’t even bothered with the sheets when they’d been so tired and perfectly capable of holding each other to keep warm.

            Gulcasa himself was still asleep, arm wrapped around Nessiah’s waist, his expression much more peaceful than it usually was when he was dreaming.

            It was already past time. Gently, Nessiah rested his hand on Gulcasa’s shoulder and shook him; he was rewarded with a faint groan and Gulcasa’s pushing himself up on his elbows, eyes half-opened and hair tousled.

            “We have to go, don’t we?” Gulcasa asked dully, without being prompted, and Nessiah smiled and nodded to him.

            They got up, gathered the things that had already been packed, and prepared a small meal to give them enough energy to walk. Gulcasa continued to give everything in the tower searching looks, as if saying goodbye to it, and when they couldn’t justify making any more delays, he left a folded paper on top of the bedside table.

            “She’ll find it, and she’ll understand,” he murmured in a low voice that Nessiah probably wasn’t supposed to hear.

            Nessiah reached out his hand; Gulcasa, seeing him do it, stretched out his own, layering their palms and interlocking their fingers. He let Gulcasa take one last long look around the room, and then they began to walk slowly down the stairs.

            …And then there was a loud creaking noise, and Nessiah felt a dispersal of magic. Beside him, Gulcasa went tense.

            From where they were standing, they could easily see the door as it opened on the silhouette of a woman dressed in heavy white robes.

            Nessiah looked down at her appraisingly as she stared up at them. There was something of a resemblance in the facial features, but other than that, she didn’t look like her son very much at all. Her hair was white and hung at her shoulders, her eyes were deep blue, and the creases on her face gave her a look of fastidious sternness.

            Her hard gaze traveled from Nessiah to Gulcasa and back, and she stood firmly, wordlessly, in the door; her countenance silently demanded some form of explanation.

            Nessiah squeezed Gulcasa’s hand briefly, then released it, spreading out the skirts of his robes and letting his body dip in a slight curtsy. “You must be Gulcasa’s mother, then; I’ve heard so much about you. You’re the one who made this place into a containment field for his powers, correct? Your efforts are truly to be commended, but I must let you know that there is no longer any need for them.”

            “So you intend to leave?” Her voice had a strangely dry tonal quality, and nothing of the warmth of Gulcasa’s. “I must apologize, but I cannot permit that. You seem to know what this boy is and what he is capable of; there is no way that a researcher of Brongaa’s blood like myself can let such a monster run free.”

            “Dear, _dear,_ but it seems as though we’re fated not to get along,” Nessiah said, projecting his voice so that it boomed throughout the tower as he lifted his chin and raised one eyebrow. “You see, I know of more effective ways to contain Gulcasa’s blood than this. Far more effective, and far less harmful. I’d be more than happy to discuss the details if you would kindly step back.”

            “That boy must not leave this tower. As long as I am alive, I will not permit it.”

            “And so you would sentence your son to death for the sin of being unable to contain himself at the age of six, with half-developed abilities and no control of which to speak?” Nessiah scoffed lightly. “You should rejoice that there isn’t any need to go so far.”

            The priestess narrowed her eyes. “Do not tell me what is best for the child I birthed.”

            “I’m not telling you _what is best._ I gave Gulcasa the choice to come with me instead of staying here, and that was what he decided upon. He isn’t a monster to be caged; he is a person whose free will should be respected.”

            “As long as I am alive,” the priestess repeated, “I will not allow him to leave this place.”

            She stepped forward, and held out her hand; there was a shimmer, and a tall silver scythe appeared in it. Her body haloed in magic, she continued to advance slowly.

            “Of all the idiotic ideas,” Nessiah murmured, and turned to face Gulcasa, who was standing frozen, looking down the stairs towards his mother with a stricken expression. “Come on. We’re getting out of here.”

            “Wha—”

            But he’d already seized Gulcasa’s hand and was running back up the stairs at top speed, pulling Gulcasa after him; they reached the bedroom in no time at all, and Nessiah ran to the window, passing his free hand before him in a horizontal slash.

            The glass cracked and exploded outward in a great crystalline sound like choir bells. As the myriad pale fragments rained downwards, clearing the way, Nessiah made his way up to the window in hurried steps, still dragging Gulcasa along with him.

            “Nessiah—”

            He turned, staring straight into Gulcasa’s eyes, and smiled.

            “You decided to leave this place, so I’ll get you out of here. Just trust me, all right?”

            He could see the fear on Gulcasa’s face, but he still nodded sharply. That had to take a lot of courage.

            “Then let’s go.”

            Ignoring the approaching footsteps, Nessiah took the last few strides at a run and flung himself through the window, hand in hand with Gulcasa. His shoulder ached briefly but sharply at the strain of pulling Gulcasa into the jump with him, but he paid it no heed; as their jump reached its arc, he reached back to grip Gulcasa’s arm in his other hand and _pulled,_ spinning them so that he could get his right arm under the other man’s back in something of a bridal carry—of course, he wouldn’t normally be able to support Gulcasa’s weight, but he released a powerful blast of wind from his right hand to offset the pressure.

            With his left arm, he gestured broadly, and power funneled up below them, slowing their descent enough for them to touch down softly, well beyond the scattered glass fragments that littered the grass just under the window.

            “Gulcasa, listen to me,” Nessiah said urgently, keeping his voice low. “Our objective here is to disable her long enough that we can get away without having her follow us. Stay back; I’ll draw her far enough away so that you won’t be in danger. If things look bad, go ahead and run; I can trace you and find you. All right?”

            “Nessiah—”

            “Shh. Here she comes.”

            And the door blasted open, and Gulcasa’s mother rushed from it with a speed that belied the lines on her face. Gulcasa seemed to be far enough back by now; Nessiah gathered his power and ran forward to meet her, a spiral of lightning engulfing his body and solidifying into a helix of energy blades, each roughly twice the length of a ritual dagger, their hilts pointed towards him. He gripped two in a flash of light, and the others fanned out at his back, ready if he ever needed them.

            The priestess in white brought the blade of her scythe crashing down, and Nessiah blocked hard with the two blades in his hands. She spoke a harsh word in the language of magic, and feeling a chill starting to gather around his body, he shouted out, giving his blades a push and leaping backwards. As they exploded with power, he reached back, and the next swords fell into his hands; he flipped them over experimentally, then swept in to catch the next blow on one and strike at her body with the other. The first place they’d clashed was covered in spikes of ice.

            To Gulcasa, or to any untrained observer, this would seem more like a well-scripted waltz than a battle; every time a pair of Nessiah’s blades dispersed, the energy would be restored to the blade-shaped feathers gathered at his shoulderblades, and so he had an endless supply of them; Gulcasa’s mother moved as gracefully as a dancer and seemed not to feel the weight of her own thick clothing. They pushed each other back and forth throughout the courtyard that the clearing formed, with Gulcasa waiting anxiously in the distance.

            …Her magic was quite powerful. Her specialties, Nessiah noted, appeared to be in binding; most of her spells seemed to be geared towards freezing him in place or otherwise trapping him so that she would be able to score a clean hit. So far, Nessiah’s own skill and reflexes had helped him to avoid being caught, and he was more than strong enough to fend her off physically.

            But just fending her off wouldn’t do any good in the long run.

            Nessiah ducked to the side and leaped backwards, putting him a few yards away from the priestess, then crossed his arms in front of his chest, palms out. The blades at his back disintegrated into pure energy, and as he spread his arms, there was a great flash of light and a crack; white lightning rained down about her body, forcing her to her knees.

            “Nessiah—”

            “I know.” He pointed, then spoke; a tight electric field bound her scythe to the ground. Supercharging it with electrical energy would pull it inexorably to the metals in the earth, making it unable to be lifted until the spell wore off.

            But just as he was about to turn to Gulcasa and make for the woods, she spoke harshly, and the thin crawling strands of lightning that had bound her legs and kept her unable to stand dispersed; her hand plunged into the folds of her robes and came up with a knife nearly as long as her forearm, and she made for him with the speed of a fighter half her age; Nessiah pushed his arms out in front of him and yelled, sending a strong burst of electricity towards her—her legs faltered, but her arm shot out, and there was a flash of silver

            and then a brutal shock of pain

            and the sharp blow against his left shoulder and side as he hit the ground.

 

-           -           -

 

            Gulcasa watched the narrow crescent of the knife and the sudden gush of blood, watched Nessiah fall, and something in his heart froze.

            He couldn’t hear, couldn’t feel; he had no idea when he’d decided to move, but he was running and running hard before it really registered.

            Nessiah lay sprawled on his side, his face hidden in the crook of his right arm. His body was rigid and shaking, and there was a very soft, very low moan of pain rising in his throat. Gulcasa couldn’t see the injury itself, but there was already blood all over Nessiah’s cheek.

            “Nessiah— _Nessiah,_ hang on—”

            “Gulcasa,” Nessiah said softly—his voice was strained, as if he had to force out every word—“give me your hand.”

            “What…?”

            “I can’t see. I need you to give me your hand.”

            Not knowing what else he could do, Gulcasa did—and a peculiar pins-and-needles sensation ran up his arms as soon as their skin made contact.

            “Nessiah…?”

            “Sorry. I have to borrow your power for a moment.”

            And almost before Nessiah had finished speaking, a great heat ran through Gulcasa’s body, and with a sound of snapping, a great light bloomed in the expanse of grass between the two of them and Gulcasa’s mother.

            It was fire—a contained ring of fire that cut the tower—and his mother—off from everything else in the surrounding area. But unlike the fire from that day, it was pure gold in color, and it didn’t eat away at the ground to either side of its line—it simply burned high, a thick wall between one side of the world and the other.

            The pins-and-needles sensation left, along with most of the heat, but a great warmth remained in his and Nessiah’s interconnected hands.

            “You foolish child.”

            A chill stole through his skin, and he looked up; his mother was standing on the other side of the fire.

            “Don’t worry,” Nessiah said faintly from beside him. “She won’t be able to cross the barrier until it goes out naturally, and it will hold for at least three days. It’s a fusion of our power.”

            “But what do you think you have accomplished by keeping me here? You know nothing of the world, and your blood is like an undetonated cannon shell. You cannot hope to contain it forever.”

            “Nessiah will teach me. And I can’t stay here any longer… I couldn’t even if I wanted to.” Gulcasa stared up at her through the obscuring screen of the flames. “You hurt someone that I love.”

            “So this is your choice?” There wasn’t any emotion in her voice, and he couldn’t see her face well enough to try to figure out how she felt about it.

            “Yes, it is.” Even so, he tried to sound as firm as he could.

            “Then so be it. I certainly hope that your power doesn’t bring you any more misery over the course of your life, Gulcasa.”

            His breath caught, and something moved in his chest—she rarely ever said his name.

            But he turned away as Nessiah squeezed his hand. “You have to help me up.”

            Nessiah’s movements were very cautious as Gulcasa supported him and helped to raise him to his feet; his face was virtually coated in blood by now, and he wiped clumsily at his cheeks with the back of his free arm, which only helped a little bit.

            “There isn’t much time. We have to go.”

            Gulcasa took one look back at the tower and the figure in white, then walked into the forest with Nessiah. His chest didn’t feel nearly as heavy as he’d thought it might.

            Once they had been swallowed up by the canopy of the trees, he turned to Nessiah. “What are we going to do now?”

            “Tiera is about two hours’ walk away, as the crow flies. We have to get there, and we have to hurry. My body is going to go into shock before long, and even if we tried to apply pressure, I don’t think that’s going to help too much this time.”

            “Nessiah…?”

            “Whatever you do, don’t let go of my hand. Right now, you’re my eyes.”

            “Nessiah, what are you talking about?” He felt very cold—felt the chill all the way down to his heart. “Why won’t you look at me?”

            “I don’t want you to see my face right now. Honestly, I…” His hand was shaking, Gulcasa realized with a shock. “I have enough of an idea what she did to me, but I don’t want to hear it. I’m sharing your vision right now because I can’t see anything. And… if I turned to you, you would see it, and I would see it, and I don’t think I could take that. I don’t know if _you_ could take it, either.”

            “Nessiah.”

            “We have to go,” Nessiah said faintly, and tugged Gulcasa’s arm, walking forward again.

            He could hear the suppressed panic in Nessiah’s voice, and as nervous as that made him, it hurt even more. Nessiah was such a strong person—even without his eyes, he wouldn’t be cowed and beaten down so easily.

            The least he could do was try to be as strong.

            So Gulcasa tightened his grip on Nessiah’s hand, and they walked forward at a faster pace. Nessiah was still losing blood, after all, and if he wouldn’t even let Gulcasa bandage his face, two hours might be too long.

            He had no idea how long they’d walked in silence—his hand was starting to hurt from how tightly Nessiah continued to hold it, his palm beginning to sweat, and there was the faintest hint of ache in his legs—but there was noise coming from up ahead of them, great snapping and the low sounds of voices.

            “Oh, damn it,” Nessiah breathed.

            “What is it?”

            “The army. Balin’s army. No, hold on.” Nessiah held out his free hand, a fresh line of blood sliding down his cheek and dripping as he bit his lip. “Damn it. There are too many of them, spread out too far. It’ll take too long to try to go around them; they must have figured that I would hole up wherever I could find shelter near here, and are just waiting for me to run into them.”

            “Then—what should we do?” Panic was rising like bile at the back of his throat, but he tried hard to keep it out of his voice. He had to be Nessiah’s strength right now.

            “We risk it.” Nessiah lifted his chin and blew out a tense breath. “We have no other choice. I have the power necessary, but—it’s all a question of how long my body can hold out. I feel chills; I think shock will be setting in fully in ten minutes’ time or so, and you’d need to carry me after that… well. We can worry about that once we’re through here.”

            “Nessiah…?”

            He didn’t turn to face Gulcasa, but he could see the grim smile curling Nessiah’s rapidly paling lips. “Whatever you do, don’t let go of my hand. Follow me as closely as you can. We’re going to make a path—and it will be all right as long as you can hold on to me. The second you let go, we’re both dead.”

            Gulcasa took a deep breath and squeezed Nessiah’s hand. If it hurt, Nessiah wasn’t saying anything; selfishly, he was glad, because he wasn’t sure he could cope with even the _idea_ of this without Nessiah’s hand in his.

            “—All right.”

            “Then hold on.”

            And Nessiah gripped his hand so tightly that his nails pushed painfully into Gulcasa’s skin, rushing forward—after the first jolt of being pulled, Gulcasa forced his legs to move, refusing to slow him down.

            They broke from the cover of the trees into a camp.

            There were so many people—more than Gulcasa ever remembered seeing in one place at one time—and almost as soon as he first glimpsed them, they were already dropping what they were doing to grab weapons.

            _“Ruquion, lightning god crossing the heavens…  
            Part the clouds, and answer me in a flash of light!”_

            The air exploded—there was no other word for it. A brilliant light filled Gulcasa’s vision, and a boom like the earth was being split open rendered him momentarily deafened; all he could do was close his eyes and stumble after Nessiah until the burn had gone from the back of his eyelids.

            As soon as it had, he forced himself to open them once again—Nessiah couldn’t see if he couldn’t—and began to shudder at the smoke and flames running across the clearing. Old memories flickered in the back of Gulcasa’s mind, but he swallowed hard and kept running as Nessiah did. There was the snap and sizzle of lightning from around Nessiah’s left arm, and he was murmuring some sort of incantation so lowly and at such speed that Gulcasa had to wonder if he was stopping to breathe. People—soldiers—kept running towards them, trying to block their way, but Nessiah would sweep his arm widely and lightning would flash and those people would fly back and collapse and did not move afterward.

            Aside from those uneasy memories and the stench of lightning and death and spilled blood making the blood coursing through his own veins feel like it didn’t belong there, Gulcasa found that the gray world of battle superimposed on the verdant forest seemed incredibly surreal. Something about it disconnected him from it all. People were dying, but Nessiah’s presence beside him was so much more immediate; the sweat-coated palm connected with his and the sharp heat linking their vision meant far more than the dying screams of the soldiers.

            Perhaps it was just that Gulcasa’s mind was trying to protect him by refusing to see it as realistic, or that he knew so little about why these people were after Nessiah in the first place. They might have been the reason that he and Nessiah had met, but he hadn’t ever really cared about why Nessiah might be a fugitive. This conflict had nothing to do with Gulcasa; this battle was nothing but another obstacle, a fleeting dream blown apart by the lightning strikes Nessiah created.

            Instead, as he looked ahead, wheeling slightly to give Nessiah a full view of the battlefield, Gulcasa was most aware of the twist of Nessiah’s body beneath the fabric of his robes—the sweat standing out on his skin—the slight hoarseness to his voice even as it boomed arrestingly with words of such power that Gulcasa’s very soul shook to hear them—the blood pouring down his face like tears, black in the harsh illumination of the lightning. All he knew about magic was learned from books, so he could only guess how much of a strain this was, but despite how much it must hurt and how much it must cost, Nessiah was still pushing himself—not just to protect his own life, but Gulcasa’s too.

            It seemed to go on forever, but then abruptly they crashed through the other side of the clearing and were running through the forest again. The world that had been so loud before was silent except for the sound of their own breathing, their footsteps, and the rustle of the plants they shoved past.

            Momentum carried them—how long, Gulcasa couldn’t have said. But his legs were starting to ache and a stitch had started in his side when Nessiah stumbled, bringing them both to a halt.

            “I’m sorry—I don’t think—I can go any farther—” Nessiah’s voice was faint between gasps for breath; he had sprawled forward onto his knees, supporting himself with one hand flung out before him and the other gripping Gulcasa’s hand so tightly he wondered if those nails would draw blood.

            He knelt, wrapped an arm under Nessiah’s chest to help him stay up.

            “Try to hold on,” he managed to wheeze out—Nessiah’s body was seized with tremors, and even though they’d stopped moving, it seemed to be getting even worse. Even the most fleeting thoughts about what that could mean terrified him. The only reason he’d been able to come so far was because of Nessiah—and if anything happened to him now—

            “Gulcasa, listen to me. Keep going in the same direction—run for as long as you can—the town of Tiera is very close. Ask for the landgrave’s protection, do you understand? Landgrave Velleman—as long as he agrees to treat me, I can explain later, but right now my body—”

            “I understand,” Gulcasa said quickly, trying to keep himself from starting to tremble too. Nessiah was entrusting him with both their lives, in case there were still soldiers who had survived their attack. It felt like such an impossible thing to ask, but—

            There was a voice, deep down in Gulcasa’s chest, that was saying softly but surely, _I refuse to let it end like this._ He’d never known that his own voice could sound so determined, but the thought took hold and spread throughout his body, filling him with a kind of strength that felt equally revelatory and nostalgic.

           Because there was no way— _no way—_ that he was going to just give up now. He had the strength at least to carry Nessiah, and as long as he could do just that, then he wasn’t going to forsake the happy, terrifying dream of living out in the wide world together that Nessiah had painted for him.

            “I understand,” he said again, and wrapped his arms around Nessiah carefully but as strongly as he dared. “I’ll do the best I can.”

            “I’m counting on you,” Nessiah said weakly, and then the only sound that came from him was the agonized rush of his breath. The grip on Gulcasa’s hand loosened, and Nessiah slumped, quivering and panting.

            Carefully, Gulcasa shifted Nessiah’s body so that it was cradled in his arms, Nessiah’s head resting just below his left shoulder. He looked even tinier than usual, all limp and pale and soaked in sweat and blood, his chest heaving, the slash wound across his eyes still seeping violent red.

            He was so small, and yet he was so wise and brave and full of nothing but love and encouragement. It was awe-inspiring, that a body the size of Nessiah’s could hold so very much good.

            Gulcasa wasn’t any of those things—brave or smart or strong. He had power, but no matter what Nessiah had told him, he was afraid of it; that was the power that had turned his boyhood surroundings into the kind of hell that the priests were always talking about, the power that had taken Siskier away. He was dangerous, a monster whether he wanted to be one or not. He didn’t know anything about the world, and he was a coward.

            But he was at least strong enough to carry Nessiah this far. He could at least try to imitate Nessiah, and step forward in pursuit of what he wanted.

            He took a deep breath, held Nessiah close—and stood up, pushing off against the ground in a headlong sprint.

 

-           -           -

 

            He ran.

            And he ran.

            And he kept running.

            Every now and then it hurt too much to push himself into a sprint, and his pace would slow to a walk for a few minutes while he got his breathing back under control, but he was never able to bear the pained sound of Nessiah’s breath or the feel of his loved one’s body still shivering uncontrollably against his chest, and that would drive Gulcasa back into a headlong dash.

            There was no time to waste on himself.

            He’d left the forest behind long ago, and just as Nessiah had said it would, a town had appeared on the horizon, the distance making it seem little more than a crop of brightly colored stones against the bald ground and boundless sky, impossibly vast now that Gulcasa was seeing it outside the frame of a window. The silver ribbon of what was probably a river cut through the earth next to it, with a vast red wasteland on the other side.

            And even though he kept running and running, it always seemed that the town was further away than the moon floating ghastly pale in the daylit sky.

            Nessiah’s blood was soaking into his clothes sluggishly, the stain growing from his shoulder; he had no idea how much longer Nessiah could hold out. Every second spent without help was a second too many.

            It felt like his lungs were going to explode and his body would give out, and the town was still at least a mile away; he didn’t even know if he could make it to the tall fortress sitting next to its border without—

            “Ah—”

            Gulcasa’s foot caught on—something, maybe an unevenness in the ground, maybe a stone—and he only managed to avoid dropping Nessiah and landing on his own face by contorting his other leg, using his knee as a cushion. Pain shot up through his leg as the fabric of his pants strained and ripped, the harsh earth grating against the skin of his knee and shin.

            It hurt. It hurt, but—this was nothing compared to what Nessiah had gone through, was _still_ going through. Gulcasa bit his lip hard and struggled to rebalance his weight, pushing against the ground to attempt to regain his feet.

            But no matter how he tried, his left leg did not want to cooperate. The pain had driven the strength right out of it, and he had no idea if he could even stand.

            This was just—there was no way that he’d managed to disable himself _now,_ not with their goal almost within reach—like hell he was going to just lie here and watch Nessiah bleed out as long as there was breath left in his body—

            “Hey, you over there! Are you alright?!”

            It was a man’s voice, a little deeper than Nessiah’s but warm in tone. Gulcasa lifted his head, turning in the direction it had come from.

            A man with a sheathed sword was running towards him from the direction of the fortress-like building. He was young—maybe Gulcasa’s age, but he didn’t have much way of judging—and wore blue and white clothes beneath his bronze armor; his hair was dark and cut close, his face clean-shaven and slightly saturnine.

            Gulcasa swallowed hard, winced against the sharp pain in his throat, and found his voice at last.

            “Help us…!”

 

-           -           -

 

            “Relax,” a kind voice said, making Gulcasa flinch where he sat. “Our healers and doctors are the best in this area. Your friend is going to be fine.”

            He nodded, but couldn’t look up, even when the swordsman patted his shoulder.

            With the other man’s help, he’d been able to get Nessiah to the stronghold beside the town, where he had been swept off to be treated. Gulcasa had wanted to follow them, but he’d been told firmly that he had to wait outside; hovering would distract the healers, and he didn’t think he could keep himself from hovering.

            Seeming to understand his worry, the same swordsman who’d helped him carry Nessiah to the fortress had elected to stay by him. Gulcasa had already decided that all these strangers were too overwhelming—only fear for Nessiah was keeping him from trying to find a safe corner to hide in—but this particular soldier had a soothing air about him. It wasn’t quite the same as Nessiah, but something told Gulcasa that it was all right to relax around this swordsman; there was something almost brotherly about him.

            He still couldn’t so much as meet the other man’s eyes, but it was better than nothing.

            “So you’re the newcomer.”

            Gulcasa jolted at the sound of the deep, harsh voice, his muscles going rigid with an old terror—but the man at the end of the hall was an unfamiliar middle-aged man.

            _He’s dead, it’s all right, no one is going to do those things to you anymore,_ he tried to tell himself, but even in his own head, his voice was wavering.

            “That’s Landgrave Velleman,” the swordsman standing next to him said helpfully, still smiling kindly. “He’s my employer, and he owns the land this town is built on. He might look scary, but he’s all right.”

            Gulcasa let his gaze slide over the well-dressed, sharp-eyed man walking towards him, then nodded. “That’s right… Nessiah said that I should ask for help from you.”

            “I take that to be your friend’s name?” the landgrave asked, then went on as if he did not expect any answer. “These are the barracks of my private troops; I am Velleman. You are?”

            He couldn’t hold that gaze. Gulcasa clasped his hands and stared at the flagstone floor; that was much, much safer and less intimidating. “My name is Gulcasa. I’m from a tower north of here… that’s where I’ve lived almost all my life. Nessiah was the one who convinced me to escape…”

            “How did he sustain those injuries?”

            “We had to fight… to leave. And there was an army waiting to ambush us. Balin’s army… he said.” Gulcasa had never asked Nessiah about why he’d been pursued—he hadn’t wanted to pry at the time—but now he was wishing that he’d managed to. He didn’t know what he’d do if this nobleman thought he knew more than he was saying. “Nessiah told me… he could tell you more about everything when he wakes up.”

            He could feel the harsh stare boring into him and quailed, desperately battling the need to flee—but then the pressure of all that attention lessened.

            “All right. You need not fear for your safety for as long as you are our guest, and you’re welcome to stay for as long as you must.” Gulcasa risked a glance up to see that Velleman had turned halfway and was now looking to the swordsman. “Jenon, he’s your responsibility while he’s here. Show him to a place to sleep later.”

            Footsteps said that Velleman was walking away; Gulcasa did not see him leave, as he had turned around sharply and was staring at the man he’d called Jenon. It didn’t even occur to him to try to hide the shock that was probably all over his face.

            “I told you he’s all right, didn’t I?” Thankfully, Jenon was still watching after Velleman’s back—it gave Gulcasa the chance to compose himself when he realized that he was probably gaping. “Do you want to see the rest of the barracks, or would you rather stay here until we get some news?”

            At the end of his sentence, the swordsman turned back to smile at Gulcasa, who dropped his gaze back to the floor automatically. The desire to ascertain whether this man was the Jenon he’d known as a child was eating at him, but it couldn’t overpower how difficult it was to stare other people down.

            “I… think I’d rather stay here. If that’s all right.”

            “No, it’s fine. I think that’s probably what I would want too, if I were in your shoes.” And the man named Jenon pulled up a chair next to Gulcasa’s, then sat down.

            A brief but tense silence passed. Gulcasa wanted to ask something, talk about something—he had to keep his mind off of Nessiah or he might break down under the strain of it all—but he couldn’t think where to start.

            “You said you come from a tower to the north, right?” Jenon asked suddenly.

            “Yes. I’ve lived alone there for a long time.” He stared steadily at the flagstones and shifted uncomfortably; his mother had always told him that being in the tower had been for his own good, but he wasn’t sure what to think now. What he was capable of was dangerous—he knew that she’d been right about that, knew it down to the marrow of his bones, but knowing that there was someone who could teach him to control himself… he’d thought that she would listen reasonably if they’d had the misfortune to run into her somewhere. He’d hoped. But she’d hurt Nessiah instead. He didn’t know if he could come to terms with it.

            Jenon was silent; when Gulcasa risked a peek up, he was staring straight ahead, letting Gulcasa examine his profile. His eyes and hair were the right colors, at least if his memories were to be trusted. He didn’t know how to broach the topic—if this _was_ the real Jenon, then he wasn’t sure if he could explain how he’d survived the fire. Surely even his childhood friend would hate him, if he explained what a monster he really was.

            “If you’ve been there so long… then I don’t think you’d know, but this is probably the safest place for you right now. Velleman is very close to the Emperor, and our army may be small, but we’re called on to support the Imperial Army a lot. Our only real interest is the protection of the people… and the other nobles, like the duke of Balin, are Velleman’s enemies. So we’ll take care of you.”

            Jenon’s expression was calm and there was pride in his voice—he seemed to be happy that he was able to help.

            Still looking out of the corner of his eye, Gulcasa laced his fingers together nervously and forced the words out. “If it’s not prying too much—what made you decide to become a soldier?”

            Jenon closed his eyes and smiled—his expression seemed a little pained. Still, he spoke without hesitation.

            “When I was a kid… there was a huge fire in this town. It destroyed a large part of the commoners’ district. Even though I have noble blood and shouldn’t have cared much, I snuck out and played with the children from the slums a lot back then, so it was a big shock. The reconstruction took a few years, and even though only three people died… they were people I knew. Two of them were my best friends.

            “While I grew up, I kept thinking about that fire. From what I hear, it started by some kind of accident during a fight—between one of my friends and his father. Most other people would probably say that they didn’t get along, but I think it’s more important to tell the straight truth. It was abuse, and even a kid my age could understand that. Some people just blame the fire on that fight, but after all the time I’ve spent thinking about it…

            “The whole situation only got to that point because people were willing to turn a blind eye to a child being abused. People felt sorry for the victim, but they didn’t try to step in, and eventually things went out of control. My friend’s father was at fault, but so was the world. They didn’t have to die like that—they wouldn’t have if things had just gone a little bit differently. That made me think more about how life was in the town, and all the unfairness around us… and I wanted to do what I could to help the people who could change that unfairness.

            “My parents didn’t want me to join the Landgrave’s army, but I didn’t listen. My father’s probably still angry at me, but I’m sure we’ll be able to reconcile someday. I know I did the right thing.”

            Gulcasa had sat up straighter over the course of Jenon’s story and was looking at him directly, so when Jenon turned around to face him again, their eyes met—and held. “It’s a pretty boring story, isn’t it?”

            He closed his eyes and shook his head. “Not at all. Thank you for telling me. I…” He struggled with words for a moment, then looked back at the ground. “I think you’re a very strong person.”

            There was a brief silence, and then Jenon began to laugh awkwardly, as if embarrassed. “Now really, what would give you an idea like that?”

            Of course he wouldn’t be able to articulate it, but—it was the same as Nessiah. Gulcasa had no idea how all these people managed to turn their tragedies into their strength and move forward with confidence—but it was amazing.

            Would he ever be able to become like that? Was such a thing even possible?

            He still wanted to tell Jenon the truth about himself, but—right now, he wasn’t sure if that was just because he wanted his supportive childhood friend back, or because he wanted to use Jenon as someone to cry to and hide behind. He’d do it once he was sure that the latter wasn’t his reason.

            The healers… probably wouldn’t be able to fix Nessiah’s eyes. Gulcasa had read enough to know that much, and as frightening a prospect that was for him, it had to be worse for Nessiah himself. And when the one he loved had been hurt so badly, he… just wanted enough strength that he could get Nessiah to lean on him when he needed something to lean on, that was all.

            It was a tiny determination taking light in a frail heart. Compared to Nessiah’s wild courage and Jenon’s strength to transcend his past, it wasn’t even enough heat to set off a candle, but it still felt inexplicably like a first step.

            The door to the infirmary opened, driving those thoughts out of Gulcasa’s mind—all he could do was look up anxiously at the man who had emerged from the sealed-off room.

            The man smiled.

            “The treatment’s finished, and his life isn’t in danger,” he said; warm relief stole over Gulcasa’s entire body, building in his eyes and threatening to spill over. “You can come sit with him now if you want.”

 

-           -           -

 

            Gulcasa spent most of his time in the infirmary with Nessiah over the next few days.

            His face had been neatly bandaged, the slash wounds that had cost him his eyes blanked out with soft white fabric. As ever, Gulcasa found it hard to reconcile Nessiah’s distinctly frail countenance as he lay sleeping in the infirmary’s bunk with that of the gallant, confident, always-smiling figure of the immensely powerful magician who had rescued him from his cloistered life for all the world like a prince in a fairy tale. Nessiah’s body was small, but he had valiantly fought off hundreds of people to secure their chance at freedom. It seemed a miracle that they had made it here, even with Jenon’s help at the last moment.

            When Nessiah finally awoke, he was fully aware of what had happened to him, and didn’t panic at being unable to see. Jenon led Gulcasa out of the room, and he went reluctantly so that the healers and doctors might speak to Nessiah in private about what he might do now.

            Once that was over with, Gulcasa returned to the room and sat beside him.

            “Magic is a very convenient thing,” Nessiah said wryly. He lifted his hand and rested his fingertips over the linen bandages, lingering over where his eyes had been. “I need a while to fine-tune it, but eventually I’ll be able to maintain constant-use spells that will make it as though I was never blinded.” He sighed, and moved his hand back to rest on his chest. “It’s difficult to take in fully.”

            “I’m sorry.”

            “It’s all right. You and I are both alive, and we’re together—that’s the most important thing.” Nessiah reached out and took his hand, squeezing it; Gulcasa intertwined their fingers. “I should really be apologizing to you—I don’t know if I’ll be able to leave this place until I recover, which leaves us in this town for a while. If it’s painful for you to be here…”

            Gulcasa shook his head, trying to smile. “No, that’s fine. I was able to meet someone I know—I don’t think he recognizes me, but… And I don’t think I’m going to be wandering around the town, I’d rather stay with you. I—” He took a deep breath, held it, and released it; everything he wanted to say was getting tangled up and not coming out right. “I think that maybe… it’s a good thing that we’ll be staying here.”

            He told Nessiah a little bit about what he’d heard from Jenon, and about halfway through, Nessiah started nodding.

            “Yes, this likely is the safest place for us in all of Bronquia, except maybe the capital. You wouldn’t know, but Landgrave Velleman’s troops have a very good reputation, and he’s a respected political figure—I doubt that even the duke of Balin is going to risk the Emperor’s ire by provoking his favorite noble, even to capture the mage who made a fool of him.” Nessiah’s smile softened; Gulcasa’s chest squeezed at the sight—and his throat tightened at the memory of the way his eyes had always gone gentle when he’d smiled like that before. He had to burn it into his mind so that he’d never forget. “And it’s good for you to have connections to other people. It’ll be easier for you in the long run if you’re able to get used to being around others, and the sooner the better.”

            Gulcasa nodded, then shifted uneasily in his seat. “When you’re well enough to travel… what should we do then?”

            “The most important thing is to start teaching you to master your power as soon as possible,” Nessiah replied, straightening up slightly and turning his head as if staring off into the distance. “We might actually be able to start that here, if we can find an open enough area.” He smiled a little, squeezing Gulcasa’s hand again. “But other than that, there aren’t any real plans. All there is for us to do is live however we choose, and do what we feel like. The most important lesson I have to teach you is what it means to be free, after all. We can stay here if you want to, or cross the border and explore other countries… and I’ll do all that I can to protect you as we do.” He reached out, and the light brush of fingertips tickled Gulcasa’s cheek. “We’ll be together. Is that all right with you?”

            Gulcasa closed his eyes and cupped his hand over the back of Nessiah’s, smiling back.

            “There are so many things about the world that I don’t know. About you that I don’t know. But I want to start learning… you said you want to protect me. I think I want to support you, or at least try the best I can to do so. I understand that it—isn’t my fault, but just knowing me has cost you a lot. I want to do what I can to make up for it—to pay it all back.”

            A shift of fabric ran through the still air of the quiet room, and as Nessiah’s fingertips moved over the line of Gulcasa’s cheekbone in a brief caress, a slight brush of lips touched his forehead.

            “You only have the rest of your life to do it, so you’d best start thinking of how to make good on that,” Nessiah murmured, his voice playful.

            Gulcasa opened his eyes. Nessiah’s face was less than a foot away from his—he was staring into the soft uneven brass-colored fluff of the other man’s bangs and the white layering of bandages.

            On impulse, he reached out and touched the edge of the pale fabric—a bit hesitantly, a bit timidly.

            “Does it hurt?”

            Nessiah shook his head slightly, smiling ruefully. “The healers here are skilled enough that pain isn’t a problem. It’s more psychological… and the bandages are here in case something drastic happens, and to protect the eyes of others. The scars are a little…”

            Gulcasa took a deep breath and summoned all his courage, then gently framed Nessiah’s face with both hands, pushing the edge of bandage up just enough that he could see the edge of puffy, lividly pink scar tissue crossing Nessiah’s eyelid.

            “It’s okay,” he said quietly, his voice shaking a little with the effort it took to speak—this was almost too bold, and his throat was still thick with tears; between them and his rapid heartbeat, words came with great difficulty. “These are here because of me. You put yourself in harm’s way for my sake. The fact that anyone would do that for me—your strength and, and your courage… they’re beautiful.”

            Doubting that he could speak any further, he leaned in to kiss Nessiah softly and briefly, allowing his eyes to half-close. As close as he was, he saw blood rise faintly beneath the skin of Nessiah’s cheeks, and then felt Nessiah’s lips curve slightly against his own.

            “Honestly, what am I going to do with you?” Nessiah murmured, his voice gelled over. Gulcasa’s heart turned over hard in his chest, and the next moment Nessiah was kissing him so fiercely that he almost forgot to breathe.

            As they parted, he leaned his forehead to Nessiah’s and closed his eyes against the tears starting to sting at them.

            “If I’m with you…” Gulcasa broke off briefly, reaching out to wind his arms around Nessiah’s waist. “If I’m with you—then I believe that no matter what happens, I’ll be all right.”


End file.
